


Conference

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Butt Plugs, Cock Rings, Come Sharing, Companionable Snark, Conference sex, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Facial, Felching, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Holmes Brothers, Hotel Sex, Intercrural Sex, Intimate flogging, John is a Horndog, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Multiple Penetration, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Softie, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Police, Polyamory, Pranks, Quickies, Rimming, Role Reversal, Romantic sex farce, Sexual Roleplay, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock tops but only once, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade, Top John Watson, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Greg gets called away to a policing conference, to Sherlock's enduring disgust. Tantrums ensue, but Mycroft has an idea of how to liven up such a dull occasion, to allow Sherlock to make it up to the D.I., and give himself and John a bit of excitement.Non-spoiler: it involves filth, farce and fraud; with cunning disguises, public roleplay, and hotel sex.





	1. Why would anyone go there?

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a bantering set-up precedes a shagging denouement. Fuck the Police. x
> 
> A bit of a fun one to offset a sort-of angsty one I'm in the middle of. Do check out my other foursome stories if you'd like more and you haven't already. Starts with 'Washing Up'.

There were fireworks over Lambeth. But not the pretty kind. Inside a small semi-detached house in a non-descript street, doors were slamming and three men were pacing around in a space that wasn’t really designed for pacing. The long-suffering but kindly neighbours sighed and turned their telly up a bit louder. There always seemed to be something happening next door that needed to be drowned out. That tall one with the nice coat was shouting again, but not in his usual happy way.

"Why do you even have to go?!"

"Because I'm a senior D.I. in the Met, love. They expect me."

"They can just un-expect you, then, can't they?"

"I can't help it, Sherlock. It's my bloody job!"

Sherlock looked utterly disgusted at this non-answer.

"How is going to some mass gathering of boring idiots for three _whole_ days and two _entire_ nights your job?! And in Cardiff! Who goes to Cardiff for anything other than Doctor Who? It's madness!"

Greg rolled his eyes and clung to his patience. This particular bone of contention had been picked all week, and he was heartily sick of repeating his defence over and over again, just because a stubborn consulting detective had selective hearing when it came to things he didn’t want to know.

"It's a professional conference. I need to know what's going on in the sector and I have to report back to the powers that be. I didn't organise the bloody thing, I just have to attend it."

Sherlock made a hissing noise that sounded like a disgruntled cat being sprayed with dog food - which is to say, a very unimpressed one.

"Professional conference, my arse, Lestrade! I can't think of anything more tedious than having to sit with a load of raddled old coppers talking about... What could you possibly have to discuss, apart from ‘how to catch more criminals’?! New handcuff designs? Switching to leopard print furry ones, are you? Discussions on how many cups of coffee you can safely drink on a ten hour shift? There's nothing to talk about! You investigate a murder, I catch the murderer, you say 'well done, darling' and then you fuck me as a thank you. Are you going to be telling them that?!"

"Thanks for that, love," said Greg, his lips a tight line of hurt.

"You're welcome," Sherlock bit back with withering sarcasm, his bright eyes flashing wildly. 

“Mate, seriously...," warned John, feeling this one tipping over into the danger zone. He felt like he’d been chasing them both round the house for hours, and leaned on the back of the sofa wearily.

"…Fuck you as a thank you...!" said Greg disbelievingly, under his breath.

“The whole thing is a complete waste of your time, and, more importantly, mine!” resumed Sherlock, indignantly, shouting to the room at large.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, you're doing my head in."

" _He's_ doing _my_ head in! Stay out of it, Watson."

John held his hands up and ruefully shook his head. His army career had given him an acute sense for a losing battle. He dropped onto the sofa and folded his arms, waiting for his damage control moment to finally arrive.

"Calm down a bit, please," said Greg, quietly and steadily, attempting to wrest back a bit of high ground while Sherlock increased his incessant pacing.

"Or what?! Are you going to put me over your knee, Lestrade?! Smack my arse and make me _behave?!_ ” he yelled, dripping contempt and belligerently kicking the armchair.

Greg twitched. His furniture always seemed to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s tantrums and it wound him up no end.

Greg held out his hands out in disbelief. “When have I ever smacked your arse in the heat of the moment?! Aside from the odd glancing tap… I’m not going to wrestle you to the bloody ground, am I? But if you break my chair again I’ll wallop you bandy when you’ve calmed down and apologised to me. Which you will!”

“Tough titty for you, Lestrade, because I am _never_ going to calm down, and nothing you can say or do will _ever_ make me!”

“Just breathe a bit, babe, you’re sky high.” Greg was practically pleading now. He simply loathed being Lestraded at home.

Sherlock spun round again. “Don't try and defuse me, it's hateful! Stop trying to distract from the fact that you're looking for an excuse to sod off to Cardiff for a massive piss-up with that bunch of apes! Staying in some ghastly, louse-infested hotel. All boys together, eh? Nice excuse for some extracurricular activity with a bit of rough?" he ranted, carelessly, throwing his arms wide.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as Greg’s mouth fell open. Greg was evidently genuinely taken aback by the suggestion and looked across at John in mute appeal. 

John flicked his eyes up to Greg. Not good. And getting worse by the second.

Their dual look of misgiving was ignored, as Sherlock poured forth an uncontrolled stream of recrimination from the middle of the living room.

"You don’t need more training. You don’t need to leave London. You shouldn't even  _be_ a Detective Inspector, anyway! You should have retired _ages_ ago!"

Greg's eyes widened in shock. John placed a hand over his eyes.

Sherlock paused for a second, mouth wavering open and closed in mild confusion, as though hearing what had come out of it for the first time. He shook his head, coming back to himself, then decided that a grand exit was probably his only face-saving option. He tossed his head with his finest hauteur, and stormed out in a whirl of coattails, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled.

"John. I can't..." Greg gestured around the room helplessly, stunned by the whole outburst.

John bounded to his feet and grabbed Greg’s hand. "Yeah, I know. He didn't mean it like that, love. He's massively off on one.”

Greg snatched his hand back, still too tightly wound for soothing touches. “Cheers, yeah, I’d managed to _detect_ that one all right, even without Prince Charming’s help!” He always felt mildly claustrophobic when upset.

John stepped back a little, pointing his finger warningly. “Oi, don’t raise your voice to me, buster. He didn’t mean that how it sounded.”

Greg nodded minutely, inhaled deeply and ran his hands through his hair, spiking it up at the sides. 

“Do I go after him, or what?” he said after a brief pause, reaching out for John’s hand apologetically.

John smiled reassuringly and moved in to hug him round the waist. “Leave him be for a bit, yeah?" he said, stroking at him with the backs of his fingers.

"It's... It's not fair, what he said, you know,” said Greg, sighing. “I know he solves more of our cases in a year than any of mine have in their entire careers, myself included. I know he's worth more than my entire bloody division for a good murder, but, like... I do actually know how to do my job. You know? He thinks I'm... It's fucking..." He lost his words.

John pulled him down for a kiss, taking his head in his hands. "Yeah, I know, love. He shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t be shouting the house down, and he’ll be bloody sorry about it before long. But running it through my Holmes Translator… He meant ‘retire so I can spend more time with you’, not ‘retire cos you’re crap’. He doesn't think you can't do the job, love."

"No?! Funny way of showing it. Is he laughing behind my back all the bloody time, or just when he's in a shit mood?"

John shook his head earnestly. "He doesn't laugh at you at all, Greg. You know he doesn't. He's freaked out about something, that's all. This conference thing. It's sent him all doolally."

"No bloody kidding," sighed Greg, pulling John down with him onto the sofa. John settled himself at one end, and Greg lay full length on his side with his head cradled in his lover’s lap, feeling knackered and in need of a pint. John stroked soothingly at his ear and nape of his neck.

"I dunno,” said John, trying to make some sense of this latest instalment of The Temper Tantrums of Sherlock Holmes (sometimes a weekly serialisation). “Maybe he had other plans for the days you'll be away. You've scuppered some intricate little scheme of his. Probably find out he was planning a raid on your cold cases and he wanted you here to admire him."

"I don't know why I bother, if he doesn't even respect me a tiny bit, John..."

It pained John to hear the remnants of self-doubt in his voice. "Hey. It's not that. He respects you, love. He's nuts for you. You know what he's like about you working." 

Bloody Sherlock and his bloody inability to say what he really meant. Not that he could always help it, reflected John. Sometimes (lots of times) being a Holmes partner was hard work. Still, worth it. Eminently worth it.

Greg sat up, indignant once again. "I can't give him the cases if I don't work, can I?! Doesn't make any sense. You’d think he’d want to know what’s going on in the policing world. Even just so he could take the piss!"

John shrugged. "Doesn't like to share you, does he? Except with us, of course. Wants all your time. You going away has discombobulated him. You haven’t gone off without him before."                                                   

"Huh. Right. I should be flattered by that little display, should I? And I’m not ‘going off’ anywhere, it’s Wales not Timbuktu."

"Prob'ly why he's so narked. He'd have loved to go to Timbuktu," said John, reflectively, then tutted. "Oh, he'll come round, mate." Though how this would be achieved, John was not entirely sure at this exact moment. He scratched his head, thoughtfully.

Greg shook his head uncertainly. "Or he'll give me the silent treatment for a month. Remember last time?"

John cringed as he remember exactly that. Greg had promised a holiday to Transylvania which had to be unceremoniously scrapped because of a spate of gang violence in the city. Sherlock had not taken it well. Holmeses in general did not like to be disappointed.

"Yeah, well, Mycroft saw an end to that one, didn't he? The gangs and the Uber-Sulk. Want to speak to him now? We should give him a fair storm warning anyway. Little Brother’s on the loose."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. Call in the big guns. Want my Mycie."

"Ha, who does that sound like? He won't be best pleased."

"He's used to it, the poor sweetheart,” said Greg, warmly.

John used his phone to dial Mycroft’s private mobile and handed it over. The soft, deep tones of the British Government emanated down the line, instantly relaxing a very het-up D.I.

"Dr Watson? How can I - "

"Hey, doll, it's me."

"Ah, Detective Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure? And please bear in mind I'm about to have a meeting with some extremely tedious, closed-minded people, so don't say anything too riveting or potentially exciting..."

"It ain't that kind of call, love."

"So I can tell. You're distressed, Gregory. Whom do I have to expunge in order to avenge you?"

"Not sure that should be your first instinct on this one."

"Sherlock," he said, darkly. 

"He's gone off."

Greg could practically hear the eye-roll.

"Flounced out, you mean?"

"I meant more 'gone off like a rocket’. Big tantrum. But yeah, he's buggered off at speed an' all."

Mycroft gave a knowing grunt. "The appallingly-titled ‘Modern Policing for Modern Crime’ conference."

"Yep."

"Oh, Brother Mine...," he sighed, wearily, but not unsympathetically.

"Can you help?" asked Greg, a tentative note of hope entering his voice.

"I endeavour to do nothing but,” replied Mycroft, with all the confident authority of a man well used to solving any sibling-related problem. “What do you require of me? I am open to all suggestions, punitive and restorative. I’ll have him catalogue my sock drawer again if it will bring a smile back to your face, dear Gregory."

"Find him and talk some sense into him, please. Or just get him to come back home for negotiations instead of a war."

"This I can do."

"Cheers," said Greg, dejectedly.

"Dear heart. Little Brother will be marmalized for bringing that tone to your voice."

Greg sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Don't go overboard, love. He's livid. He thinks I'm abandoning you all for a three-day jolly-up in Wales. As if I'd rather be there than here! Said I should be retired by now, and sack off the Met altogether, basically. Inferred..."

"Implied."

"Can't help yourself, can you? Implied, then,  _implied_ that I was going to take the opportunity for a dirty bunk-up with some horny young Sergeant in between discussion panels."

"Oh, good Lord," said Mycroft, shaking his head despairingly.

"He can’t actually think that, can he?!" 

"Of course not! As well you know. That's merely his cover story."

"Oh? Cover for what?"

"He's frightened, Gregory."

"How'd you mean? Of me?"

"Of course not, you silly policeman. He doesn't want you going to a Met conference because he doesn't want you in the Met. In the line of duty. He's terrified of something happening to you. As are we all, I hasten to add." 

"But he knows the job. He knows my training. Why should it start being worse now?"

"Because my very extraordinary baby brother is as superstitious as any ordinary, mundane citizen of this Sceptred Isle. The longer time goes on with no horrifying incident, the more certain he becomes that he's riding his luck and the big pointy finger of doom from the sky will surely strike us all down. It's an irrational feeling with a rational basis. You perform a dangerous role, protecting and serving. Like it or not, you’re in the firing line. He accepts danger for himself, but the idea of any of us being harmed is, naturally, abhorrent."

"Then why isn't he banning John from running around with him like a back-alley tomcat? Isn't he in harm's way? And he's got a kid!"

"Yes, well, our John has made his feelings quite clear on that subject. Can't stop Watson when he's fixated on something. Dog with a bone. He makes a judgement call, case by case, on how involved to be. And he still craves excitement like the rampant hedonist he is. Horrible to live with otherwise."

"I heard that!" chimed in John, from the sofa.

"Good!” called out Mycroft. Then at a phone-appropriate volume – “Little Brother is arrogant to the point of pathology, bless him, and believes if he keeps John close, he will always prevent disaster befalling him. Sherlock is John's watchdog, not the other way around."

"Why's it different with me, then?"

"Well, he can’t keep constant guard over you, Gregory. And, frankly - guilt. He oozes guilt because it suits him for you to keep throwing cases at him. So he feels responsible for tying you to a role that gives you a lot of stress and puts you in danger. It makes him fearful about being responsible for your getting hurt."

Greg smiled and winked at John. "Aren't you a clever one, my Mycie?"

"I am. Funny how my brother chooses to forget that. And something else he forgets – he can't protect you as he would like to, perhaps. But I can, to a not inconsiderable extent, with all the resources at my disposal. You have eyes on you, Gregory. We all do. As I shall remind him."

"Please do. Hammer it home. I don’t want him frantic every time I leave the bloody house."

"It’ll be all right, my love. Though…”

“What?”

“Little Brother is not entirely wrong about…”

“Oh, Myc, not you as well.”

“I merely suggest that we could arrange for Sherlock to hack into the Met system – God knows he tries it enough. Anthea claims she’s going grey trying to patch all the holes he makes. But we could permit him full access and he’d have enough to keep him going until Doomsday, and then you could start to wind down a little, perhaps part-time at first...”

“I’m not retiring before I’m 50! I’ve got to earn a living.”

“No, you really haven’t. The Holmes family would be delighted to tie up an inordinate amount of cash in your name, dearest.”

“Oh, so I’d be a kept man, would I? Very nice. What about pride?! Professional and personal.”

“Ah, well, that’s different. Far be it from us presumptuous Holmes boys to trample on the pride of the Lestrades.”

“Look… We’ll talk about the work thing, OK? I… Just find your bloody brother and give him what for, tell the little bugger I love him and bring him back, all right?”

“An excellent stratagem.”

“See you later? At mine?"

"Count on it, darling. Now, please let Johnny give you a cup of tea and a cuddle, and any other physical comfort you might require."

"All right. Sounds good. Bye, doll."

“Bye, sexy!” called John, purely because he knew it would make their self-effacing lover blush pink before his big meeting. He took the phone back after Greg hung up, then grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into his arms again.

"There is another explanation to throw into the mix as well, you know,” he said, undoing the D.I.’s top buttons and stroking his chest comfortingly. “Why Sherlock’s gone all dappy. Well, dappier.”

"Oh, yeah?" said Greg, rubbing at John’s jean-clad thigh, feeling himself relaxing a bit.

"He'll miss you,” said John, with a ‘well, durr’ intonation.

"Yeah?" Greg looked rather hopeful. John grinned at him affectionately.

"Yeah. He's just jealous cos he'll miss you while you’re away. Psychology's all well and good; abandonment issues, fear, guilt, and that. But, I'm telling you, that boy's a soppy sod and he'll miss you in bed at night.”

“Reckon?” Greg plucked at the bottom of John’s jumper and started ruching it up to reveal his smooth, firm stomach.

John whipped the jumper over his head, helpfully, and continued to offer his reassuring analysis. “The silly dickhead loves a cuddle and a bloody good seeing to, and he’s facing two whole nights without his big strong bloke to pin him to the mattress before he goes to sleep. And again when he wakes up in the morning. If anything, it’s me and Myc that should be insulted – wouldn’t kick up this much of a fuss if we buggered off for a couple of days."

Greg idly rubbed at John’s sandy nipples, lifting them into little peaks. John went all tingly.

Greg shook his head firmly “Not true at all. Taking you away from him’s like nicking his sweets. Still wanks watching you do your morning press-ups, doesn’t he? And he goes potty if Mycroft even thinks about putting pants on at the weekend. Poor baby’s an insatiable git.”  

“Yeah. Baby’s also a clingy git sometimes. Better than if he weren’t though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah. I’m the one that should be complaining about not getting it for two bloody nights, not him! We roger him senseless enough as it is. That spoiled little arse of his sees more action than Old Compton Street.”

“Ha, remember to tell Myc that one,” chuckled John, stripping Greg of his shirt and unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements.

“Think it’ll be all right, if I do go on Wednesday?” said Greg, between kisses to John’s chest.

“ _When_ you go,” corrected John, nibbling his lover’s ear. “It’ll have to be. He has to learn to let his loved ones have a bloody life outside of his immediate needs. I know compromise is his kryptonite, but, yeah, we’ll sort it.”

“Hope you're right, love." Greg sucked at John’s neck, lips quirking in satisfaction at the little bruise he left behind.

"Course I'm right,” panted John, undoing his jeans. “ _I'm_ right about everything, never mind these bloody Holmeses."

“Thanks, darl,” said Greg. He held John’s head in his hands, regarding the warm hazel-green eyes with affection and gratitude.

John smiled and leaned in for a deep snog. Their mouths parted with a wet slurp.

“Mmm. Now, what can I do to make you feel better, Mr Lestrade? Now you’ve got me all semi-naked and randy in your front room?”

“Blowjob,” said Greg, urgently, sounding more Sherlockish than he realised.

John chuckled, and worked Greg’s trousers and pants down until his rapidly hardening cock, ruddy and hot, bounced against his abdomen with a satisfying slap.

“Never mind that lanky streak. _I’ll_ miss you in bed,” John said, as he sank to his knees, licking his lips. “Bloody Cardiff.”

And then no-one spoke a coherent word of more than one syllable for quite a while.

***

A text pinged its way via satellite from Whitehall - where the sender was worrying at a limp and unsatisfying salad - to somewhere in Hyde Park - where the recipient was quietly seething whilst feeding a bunch of very greedy, very amusing ducks.

_\- Go directly to Hampstead, Sherlock Holmes. Do not pass Go, do not collect £200. M_

_\- Not funny. S_

_\- Quite funny. But also deadly serious. Get your little backside to the house and wait for me._

_\- No. Bugger. Off._

_\- Don't make me fetch you._

_\- Like to see you try._

_\- You won't have to. You'll only see one of my lot as they bundle you into the boot of a sedan with blacked out windows and no number plates._

_\- FFS._

_\- ABC - does that mean anything? Be there by 6pm or I'm sending the heavies._

_\- They don't come heavier than you._

_\- Water off a duck’s back, dear boy. Speaking of which, don’t overfeed those._

_\- Hate you. S x_

_\- I know, dear. M x_

An hour later, after much deliberate heel-dragging, a recalcitrant and still-fuming detective kicked at a wrought iron security gate in front of an excessively large house in an excessively wealthy area of North London. It opened automatically, and he barged through, charging up the gravel drive. As he went to kick the front door, it opened, and Mycroft Holmes dodged just in time to avoid getting his shins bashed in.

Sherlock scowled. _Damn. Missed again._ His brother smiled insincerely.

"Ah, I see you didn't get abducted on the way. Do come in, dear brother.” He gestured gallantly and Sherlock pushed past him. He shook off his coat and let it fall on the hallway floor, huffing like a teenager who’d been brought home early from a school disco.

Once inside the ground floor living room, he continued this most convincing of all his impersonations, and hurled himself onto Mycroft’s large suede sofa. Mycroft followed at a painstakingly unhurried pace.

“Now…” he said, as Sherlock fidgeted and bashed the back of his head against the back of the sofa, “Would you like some time to rummage around all my private, locked rooms, secret cabinets, hidden files, etcetera, first? To save you the trouble of doing it next time you break in? Though how someone with their own key can be said to be breaking and entering, I don’t know. That poor Constable was so disappointed when you set the alarm off last time.”

Sherlock threw himself onto his back and growled at the ceiling. Mycroft doing stand-up was appalling at the best of times, but when he had a really good rotten mood going it was intolerable.

“Still,” continued Mycroft, smiling with revolting charm, “you could have another go at pulling library books out to try and find the revolving door. It's on a combination, I'm afraid, and you won’t get long enough to deduce the immensely complex sequence it requires to activate. But I’m willing to give you a chance," he said, generously.

Sherlock gave a mighty scowl. "Stop bluffing, Mycroft, I know there's no secret revolving door to an underground lair. Gave up looking months ago."

"A double bluff on your part, Brother Mine.”

"A triple bluff on yours, because I know you know there IS a revolving door and you know I'll find it one day!" yelled Sherlock, flipping his body onto his side to glare balefully at his ghastly brother, who resolutely ignored him.

"Never shall. Because there isn't one. Or is there?" Mycroft said, raising one arched eyebrow with infuriating irony.

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Oh, do shut up, Mycroft! Why is everyone trying to annoy me today?!"

"Are they, darling?" he said, with sickly pseudo-sympathy.

Sherlock huffed. "Lestrade's bloody conference of morons, Watson being all...Watson-y and reasonable. You summoning me with texts!"

Mycroft tapped a finger against his chin as he reflected upon this. "Mm. I have summoned you, haven't I? Must have done, because here you are. Subject of a summons."

Sherlock could bear repartee no longer. "Argh!"

"Yes, have a good scream, Little Baby Brother.”

"Don't call me that, you..."

Mycroft cocked his head with interest. "Yes?"

Sherlock took a very deep breath. "Gargantuan, completely unfunny, infuriating, smug fuck-head!"

"Oh, dear. Not very original. I know you’re capable of better," said Mycroft, shaking his head with his ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed that you’ve let yourself down’ look.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, gritted his teeth and felt his face overheating with rage. "I'm going to smash your projector to smithereens and tango on the remains! I'm going to set fire to your porn collection. I'm going to - "

"I don't have a collection of pornography," said Mycroft, blandly, seeming almost baffled by the allegation. Sherlock’s mouth opened in an incredulous gasp.

"Ho, yes, you do! I know you do. Not those awful tacky films of Lestrade’s… You've got  _etchings,_ ” he accused, meaningfully.

"What evidence have you?" asked Mycroft, frowning slightly with all the considered detachment of a Q.C. in Crown Court.

Sherlock spluttered. "The evidence of...knowing!” He pointed his finger aggressively, getting into his stride.

“You've got all those mucky Victorian daguerreotypes of boys in britches beating each other with birch rods. You buy them up by phone bid at dodgy auctions - I’ve seen transcripts! I remember from when you were a teenager, you had a special antique box of dirty lithographs which you nicked from Uncle Rudy's library, which you never shared! All those hours spent ‘studying’,” he said, mockingly, making inverted commas in the air with his fingers.                             

Mycroft made a little incredulous sound. "What a vivid imagination you have, Lock. It all sounds perfectly lovely – let me know if you find anything. We’ll have them for a bedtime story.”

Sherlock remembered something else. “Ooh, _and_ you've got all that banned Edwardian hardcore which you liberated from MI5's archive on the Royals. Naughty French dancing boys in frilly bloomers doing unspeakable things to each other with vegetables! They're here somewhere.”

Mycroft tilted his head in consideration. “It sounds like a very rare and expensive collection,” he admitted. “Hypothetically. Not the sort of thing I'd willingly relinquish to your careless...hands. They're not laminated, after all. And you're always such a sticky, messy little boy, with no respect at all for historic objects or your brother's archiving tendencies.”

Sherlock blushed, furiously. “I'll find them eventually, and incinerate the lot!"

“No, you won’t, Naughty Lockie. If you found such a nice collection of thrilling pictures, you'd absolutely _cover_ them, wouldn't you?” His voice seemed to drop an octave.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, trying to not let himself be distracted by these very distracting images. He felt his cock twitch in his trousers, filling out at his brother’s abominably well-aimed words.

“And what should happen then, hm?” continued the wheedling, silky voice. “What would I do with you if you destroyed my lovely documents, my artistic little snapshots, with your filthy, wet mess? I'd have no option but to discipline you, and make you behave yourself. Do you think I could make you beg with my carpet slipper again…?”

Sherlock leaned forward, hard and straining with tension, well at the end of his tether now.

“All my orgasms are sarcastic, you know! Every single one, and you can tell that to Lestrade and Watson too!” he howled.

“Well, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” quipped Mycroft, with appalling tranquillity, snapping instantly out of his former seductive tone.

"Mycroft!" wailed the youngest Holmes in sheer desperation. He flung himself back down, covering his face with a cushion.

Mycroft smiled to himself. "Are you quite finished? May we attend to business now?"

“Fine, fine, just spare me the performance, please! I give up, all right? You’re too annoying to live!” This declaration would have been more effective had it not been muffled by sofa cushions.

“Thank you, darling. What a good boy he can be when he puts his mind to it,” cooed Mycroft, teasingly.

Sherlock said nothing, using a bit of sound judgement for once.

Mycroft made his move. He crossed over to the sofa and hoisted his brother’s gangly legs up, then slid himself underneath them to sit at one end.

Sherlock huffed extravagantly, flipped over onto his front, then whinged as he voluntarily unfastened and dropped his trousers, pulling down his underwear with them. He wiggled himself back across Mycroft’s knees, bare backside up, burying his head in his folded arms with a petulant huff.

“Just get on with it,” he demanded, sulkily. Mycroft’s smile could have lit up the West End at Christmas.

“Oh, how enchanting for me. Is that what you want, then? To be punished?” He placed a cool hand onto his brother’s delectably rounded cheeks, quivering like a saucy blancmange in his lap.

“Isn’t that why I’m here?! Cos I was rude to your Gregory, and he’s sent you to get me,” Sherlock ground out in a pathetic voice. “Don’t care. Fine by me! Do your worst.” He sniffled somewhat pitifully. Mycroft simply melted, as he always did when Lockie was being delightful.

“All right, then,” said Mycroft, obligingly, and landed a moderately forceful, single spank to the centre of the peachy little bottom, which jumped cutely in his lap. “There. Learned your lesson? Now stop being a silly boy and come up here so I can fuss you.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at his brother with doe-eyes, his dark curls falling into his flushed face.

“Fuss me?” he said, with sweet bafflement. Mycroft shook his head and tutted in fond tolerance. The boy knew all too well how to play a violin.

“All wound up like a spring,” he sighed. “Let me pet you. I demand it. My hand would rather stroke than spank tonight, I find.”

“Really?”

“Yes, come here, ludicrous monster. Honestly, such carryings on. All he needs is a bit of soft, doesn’t he?” Mycroft coaxed.

Sherlock tentatively nodded, as though still expecting some vile trick. “Mm-hm.”

Mycroft tutted fondly and Sherlock let himself be manhandled onto his back again, trousers and underwear still round his thighs. He let his brother bring his lower legs onto his lap, and Mycroft began massaging at his besocked feet.

Sherlock grabbed the cushion again and placed it over his face to conceal his blushes. He peeked out from under it, looking down the length of his body to regard his brother with narrowed eyes - suspicious but not hostile.

“What? What is this?” he asked, dubiously.

“It’s called a foot massage, dear. Hence the massaging of your feet.”

“But…”

“Silence. Back beneath your cushion,” commanded Mycroft, gently.       

Sherlock frowned and disappeared again. A companionable silence fell, and Sherlock’s breathing calmed as his heart rate fell back to a moderate level. His hard-on remained immoderate, however.

"Ugh. Yuck. This is all so distasteful," he said, after a few minutes, chucking the cushion from his face into the middle of the room.

Mycroft nodded and patted his brother’s feet. “The foot massage? I don’t think so.”

“Icky feelings. The…heavy, guilty one. Bleurgh.”

“I know, darling. Dreadful. Big brother will sort it all out, though, hm?”

“No, shut up, I’m still sulking. Haven’t nearly finished sulking yet!” he said forcefully, trying to stir himself back up to a comfortable level of irritation, in spite of the soothing sense of relaxation now flowing through his body.

“Stop huffing and puffing, fiery little dragon,” crooned Mycroft. Sherlock tried and failed to disguise the little grin that quirked at his shapely lips.

“Sh’up.”

Mycroft patted his lap. “Come here to me.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, but sluggishly hauled himself up and repositioned his upper body against his brother’s legs. Mycroft’s hand fell to his hair, and he allowed himself to be stroked and petted like a grumpy cat.

“Oh, darling one. It’s all right,” said Mycroft, with gentle exasperation. “Greg isn’t going anywhere.”

“’Cept to Cardiff,” he replied, accurately, if resentfully.

The elder Holmes nodded sagely. “Yes. You must let him go without making him feel worse about it, you realise?”

“Grr, I know. I hate that.”

“Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it? Other people’s feelings.”

“Mm-hm. Simply ghastly, brother.”

“But crucial, don’t you find?”

“Sadly, yes. Why can’t everyone just do what I want them to do all the time?!”

“I know. It’s not fair, my Princeling. Still, we must endure it. For love and all that rot.”

“Not rot,” grouched Sherlock.

“No. He loves you and he wants you home.”

Sherlock huffed. “Same. He doesn’t even have to be in the Police anymore, though, Mycroft! He should just stay at home and I can send him out on my cases, which are the only good ones _anyway_.”

“Yes, everyone should be working for you, dear, shouldn’t they?”

“Not everyone. Just useful and handsome people, and very, very nice Inspectors and Captains with strong arms and sporty thighs; lovely sculpted abs, firm arses, and big, thick cocks… And blood relations, too,” he added, cheekily.

“Obliged to you, I’m sure,” shot back a very unoffended Mycroft. "You know I have my eyes in the sky, Brother Mine," he said, gently shifting to a more sincere point.

"I know," sighed Sherlock, a little sadly.

"Trusted operatives, ready for swift intervention at a moment's notice. For all of us."

"Yeah. Nice abuse of power, Mycroft."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Luckily, it's mine to abuse. No point being the British Government if one can't protect one's nearest and dearest. Even if they do kick up a fuss about it occasionally."

Sherlock picked at the sofa and sniffed. "Mm. I do... You know. I'm glad..."

"Ssh. Of course," soothed Mycroft, knowing the rest without needing to hear it.

Mycroft lulled his brother further into relaxation with strong, steady strokes to his hair and nape of his neck. “Going to apologise to him, aren’t you?” he asked, rhetorically.

“Yes, Mycie. Course I am," he nodded, definitely.

“Thank you.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and he began drifting off into a pleasant half-snooze.

“Dearest…?” queried Mycroft, lightly flicking at his brother’s earlobe.

“Hm?” he queried, dreamily.

“Before we pop round to Greg's later, we’re going to hatch a little plan together. You and I.”

Sherlock’s shining blue eyes sprang open. Now, this was interesting.

“Are we?” he asked, full of anticipation. He felt Mycroft nod behind him.

“I think we are, yes. A little plan to make up to Greg for all this nonsense; to give our John something exciting to do; and to have ourselves a pleasant little family jaunt for once.”

“Anywhere you had in mind?” asked Sherlock, innocently.

Mycroft paused for effect and thought about it. “I hear Wales is simply horrible at this time of year.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sherlock, with joy. “Yes, let’s do that, then. I've literally never wanted to go there. Perhaps the capital city, to really get the feel of the place. Some louse-infested hotel would be marvellous.”

“Next Wednesday suit you?”

“Yes, I think I can find the time in my busy schedule,” confirmed the junior Holmes.

The senior nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll have Anthea arrange the requisite documentation – convincing ID passes, hotel rooms, security lists and such. I shall see to the outfitting myself. And we’ll need to discuss the finer points between ourselves, of course.”

“I leave it all in your filthy capable hands, frater. I could do with a bit of a run out of London. So could Watson.”

“Excellent. I’ll tell the Captain we’re on manoeuvres. Don’t think he’ll really fancy stopping at home, do you? But, erm, perhaps we shan't tell him too much in advance this time. Mrs H will be glad to see to the young Miss for a few days, while we arrange a little surprise for our hardworking D.I. A bit of a dangerous public one. Just for the kicks. Don’t you think?”

“I do think, brother. I do.”

“Excellent. Now… If you’re a very good boy and take all these restricting, silly clothes off, I might… _might_ be able to lay my hands upon a mint collector’s album of extremely ripe 19th century studio photography…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Cardiff. It's not horrible at all, it's great. I pick it only for the Doctor Who reference, really. It's only Sherlock who resents it for taking Greg away.


	2. The D.I, the Sergeant, the Concierge, and the Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conference day dawns, and there are miscreants on the loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1, afternoon 1. Plans are set in motion and celebrations ensue. Trigger-warning for unsubtle Doctor Who references.

In the intervening days since the big argument, much had been accomplished. Research had been commissioned. A Plan had been formulated. And Greg and Sherlock had made up with alacrity; shagging the residual resentment out of each other amid a litany of sincere sorries, sealing their fresh resolve to stop getting on each other’s tits.

Sherlock had treated Greg to his all-time favourite position - riding on top of him reverse cowboy-style. Greg always lost his mind watching Lock’s luscious arse lifting and lowering frantically in front of him, slick hole stretched wide around his cock, while all he had to do was lay there and let it happen. And jiggle a bit. John and Mycroft had noisily sucked and fingered each other off lying alongside them, and then all three had watched with debauched fascination as Greg’s considerable load dribbled back out of their happy little jockey. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that Sherlock’s mood had been consistently sunny ever since.

When Tuesday night rolled around - what Sherlock thought of as Conference Eve - all four men in this sinful erotic cabal had gathered round for a farewell Thai takeaway at Greg’s. Sherlock was in an utterly charming mood, much to Greg’s surprise - but to no-one else’s. He was gracious, erudite, attentive and downright chivalrous. He passed the jasmine rice without being asked. He helped clear the plates. It was weird.

Greg supposed it to be a particularly long-lasting afterglow hangover. In fact, everyone seemed in a much better mood than he expected in the run-up to his departure. He was puzzled, but it made his heart thump a little harder to feel that all of his blokes were making an effort to make things good before he left. Though none of them had exactly said “we’ll miss you”, he knew they’d be impatient for his return in a couple of nights.

When what Mycroft thought of as ‘C-day’ arrived, Greg left for his train at the crack of dawn. The Met's extremely short purse strings wouldn't stretch to a third night, so he had to travel at an ungodly hour. 

He didn’t question it when none of his partners accompanied him to Paddington station. It was horrendously early, freezing cold, and they’d all worn each other out so thoroughly the night before that he completely understood when nobody could rouse themselves out of his cosy super king-sized bed. They didn’t always sleep in it together, often breaking off into pairs and using the spare room. Even the largest bed wasn’t quite large enough for four grown men afflicted by varying levels of night-time antisocial behaviour - fidgeting (John), snoring (Greg), and, in one consulting detective’s case, entire lucid conversations out loud. When Sherlock’s CPU went into nocturnal hibernation, his autopilot came on, and he’d ramble through case notes or recite theories unconsciously. If you wanted a decent night’s sleep, you had to go to bed with Mycroft. He slept like a vampire – flat on his back, stock-still and immovable.

Greg settled for lots of sleepy goodbye kisses; ruffling hair, tweaking noses, and sniffing ears. As soon as the front door closed, however, three sets of eyes sprang open, and the house became a hive of activity. They would need to be on the train after Greg’s to make it in time for ‘Phase One.’

Sherlock had begged to be allowed to use a helicopter, but Mycroft was stubbornly against. Far too conspicuous. Instead, he booked out an entire First Class carriage on a Virgin Train, which had turned out to be more expensive than using the chopper in the first place. Bloody privatisation.

Greg arrived at the resolutely three-star Hotel Excelsior with half an hour to spare before the first plenary session at 10am. The grandiose name belied its mid-range, mediocre charms, but the place was nice enough – modern, clean, a bit posher than a budget put-up. Though hardly suitable for a Holmes. He checked in and registered for his security pass, then shoved his suitcase in his room – trying not to be immature when it transpired he’d been allocated Room 69. Then he joined another couple of hundred police officers from up and down the country in search of vital, life-giving coffee, and took his seat in the large conference hall.

By one o’clock, he was bored. Mind-stultifyingly, arse-numbingly, soul-destroyingly bored. He began to feel how Sherlock must feel all the sodding time. He'd already sat through an hour-long welcome address by a woman with the most atrocious head cold, who had sniffed and hacked, ummed and erred her way through the entire, incomprehensible thing.

Then there'd been a panel on Diversity in Policing. Greg realised his love life alone might make him one of the most diverse people in the room, male, white and middle-aged though he may be. True, you couldn't exactly come out as a member of a four-way incestuous bonk-squad. But he was proud to represent, or to have represented at one time or another in his life, at least a couple of letters in the LGBTQ acronym – though he didn't like to be labelled. He was polyamorous, kinky, divorced, and working class to boot. Not a bad representative copper for London, really, he reflected with pride. 

By the end of the simply excruciating seminar on Engaging with the Neighbourhood Watch, he was daydreaming of fire alarms or hostage situations, and feeling suddenly very homesick. He wondered why he'd insisted on coming at all.

The only thing propping him up were four coffees and a very limp bacon sandwich, so by the time lunch arrived, he was severely flagging. Which may have accounted for the fact he didn't really notice the man at the buffet at first glance. But when he did notice…

The man seemed vaguely familiar from behind. Five foot seven, sandy-haired, and wearing a cheapish grey suit, which blended nicely with all the other cheapish suits in the room. He took his jacket off and folded it over one arm as he juggled a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea. Then he turned round, and it was lust at first (ish) sight for D.I. Lestrade. His heart jolted and he had to stop himself from jumping in the air.

_And there’s my conference shag._

He was a handsome one, all right, with wide-set, distinctive features and mirthful eyes. Through his plain white shirt, unencumbered by a tie, Greg could see the bloke was compact and trim, with a muscularity that suggested some kind of athletic hobby or regular exercise regime. The shoulders were broad and square. The hair line neat and orderly, if a little long at the sides. The arse - tightly defined in slim-fitting trousers and emphasised by a black leather belt - was knock-out. You could bounce coins off it. You could bounce all sorts of things off it, if you put your mind to it. 

Greg stalked his prey as he made his way unassumingly through the crowd of ravenous conference-attendees, and settled himself at an empty table in the refreshment hall.

Greg took the seat opposite, and glared intently.

The man looked up, nonplussed but friendly enough. “All right, mate?”

Greg grunted and sat back, regarding him with an expression of amused frustration. “Yeah. I’m all right, mate. Come here often, do you?”

The man looked around, as though wondering whether he’d been mistaken for someone else.

“Obviously not… Looking for someone?”

Greg smirked and shook his head. “No. No, not at all. So… What's your name?" he asked, challengingly.

"Oh, hang on, it's on my official ID... Yeah. Tom." The man gave a confident nod.

Greg tilted his head and raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "Tom?!"

"Tom Baker," confirmed the man, seeming more certain than ever.

"No, it isn't," said Greg, with what he felt was justifiable scepticism.

The man frowned at this odd response.

"Yep. Definitely is. Says so here, so it must be.” He tapped the pass hanging from a lanyard round his neck, and Greg saw that it was.

“Right. Fourth Doctor, wasn’t he?” said Greg, with heavy irony.

“Not a Doctor,” said the man, puzzled. “I’m a Sergeant." His warm hazel-green eyes glinted as he looked up and held contact for just a little longer than a stranger ought to.

"Oh, aye?"  _A young, horny Sergeant by any chance?_

"Yep. And you are?” said the young Sergeant, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a pair of distracting forearms.

 _A horny middle-aged detective._ "Gregory Lestrade. I'm a D.I with Specialist Crime and Operations. Head up an MIT. Don't need to spell that one out for you, do I?"

The man shrugged and stuffed a sandwich into his mouth, chomping on it with showy indifference. "Murder Investigation Team? Nope. London boy?" he asked, through crumbs.

"Yeah. Born and bred. West district is my stomping ground. Where are you from?" Greg sat back and folded his arms, beholding him with something near to exasperation.

"Essex way,” said the Sergeant, breezily. “Not much serious crime down there. Apart from crimes against fashion."

"You staying here too, then?"

"Yeah. Not too bad, is it, really? Not the louse-infested hellhole we'd been led to expect. Nice staff," he said, insinuatingly.

Greg jolted as a thought occurred. One which really ought to have occurred earlier had it not been for the pert Sergeant’s lovely eyes, and forearms, and arse...

_Oh, no. Where are the Holmeses? Just John? Or all three? A one-day expedition or a whole campaign?_

The suspicion was agonising. A game was afoot. But he had no idea what kind of game, who the players were, or how he was going to get through three days of this kind of public torment. If indeed, that’s what was happening. All he knew was, he was likely to be getting laid at some point and that was good enough. He glanced around, trying to discern a dark curly mop of hair or a neatly groomed auburn crop amongst the crowd. No such luck.

"Which floor are you on?” he asked the handsome stranger, trying to stay calm.

“Can’t remember.”

“What’s your room number?”

“Didn’t notice.”

_Oh, it's like that, is it, Johnnyboy?_

“Should probably ask the concierge or something,” said the Sergeant.

“Is there one?”

He shrugged. “Probably. What time’s your next talk thing?”

“2pm. ‘New crime scene protocols.’ Riveting.”

“Hm. Sounds important. Don’t want you missing it. But, er…”

“Yeah?”

“You couldn’t help me look for my room, could you, mate?” said the man, pleading slightly, a bit embarrassed. “You know how things just occur to you when you’re distracted. Sure if I had some company it’d… _come_ to me.”

‘Tom’ grinned and looked at the nice D.I. expectantly. 

Greg checked his watch and looked furtively around. “Go on then. Half an hour.”

The young man scooped up his jacket, and led the way out of the hall, into the foyer. They waited for the lifts in nervy silence, not daring to look at each other for fear of starting a giggle avalanche. The doors pinged opened and two women stepped out chatting about the Appropriate Use of Tasers workshop they’d just attended. Greg had half-expected there to be Holmeses inside, and was disappointed when there wasn’t. John smirked affectionately as he saw his lover’s face fall a bit.

“You all right, mate?” he said, as they stepped into the lift.

Greg pulled himself back into the scene. “Yeah. Which button? Oh, wait, don’t know your floor, do you?” he said, sarcastically.

John mused as he ran his finger over the number pad. “Hm. Let’s try…that one,” he said, recklessly, pressing for Floor 5. “Going up?” he winked, with his Best of British innuendo, and stepped in to give his lover a passionate snog.

Greg’s stomach flipped. The lift wasn’t the only thing rapidly ascending.

“Was just wondering…,” he said, disingenuously. “Is it possible to do it in a lift, do you reckon?”

John snorted as he rubbed Greg’s cock firmly through his clothes. “You’re not the only one who’s wondered that, Detective. The answer, apparently, is no. Even if you can shut the mechanism down without pressing the emergency stop, it halts the whole system and takes hours for an engineer to come and reset it. So by the time you’d done…anything interesting…you’d be frantic with claustrophobia, desperate for the loo, and very, very conspicuous.”

“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?” chuckled Greg, imagining that conversation all too vividly.

“Just some blokes I know,” smirked the Sergeant.

“Sound well-informed.” Greg was panting now, getting worked up.

“They like to think so.” The lift doors pinged, and John stepped away, leaving Greg aching, with the front of his trousers tented. “Ah, there we go. Let’s see if we have any luck out here,” he said, earnestly.

They stepped out into a bland corridor that looked like every other bland corridor on every other bland floor.

John practically skipped down it, then remembered himself and slowed to a more measured, Police Sergeantly pace. Greg stalked along behind him, occasionally glancing round to check for potential onlookers. He looked a little anxiously at the CCTV cameras, tucked not-very-discreetly into the corners of the ceiling. John caught him and grinned in delight. “Don’t worry about that, mate.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Oh, dear. He suspected that the hotel had fallen into rogue hands.

John turned a few corners and feinted towards a few doors, seemingly at random, mischievously teasing his latest conference conquest. Sergeant Tom Baker was a little slut, he’d decided. Picking up handsome officers of the law wherever he went.

He suddenly halted outside a door right at the very end of a deserted corridor. He frowned thoughtfully, then seemed to decide something and pushed the handle. It clicked open and he beamed back at Greg, then grabbed him by his lapel with one hand and pulled him into the room. Which was not a room. It was a utility cupboard, where the chambermaids kept the towels and mini-soaps.

Greg laughed. “Why, Sergeant. Bit of a...tight fit in here. This can’t be your room, can it?” he said, innocently, pulling John in towards him by the collar. Their bodies met in the confined space, and John pushed his hard-on up against Greg’s thigh, making them both groan.

John clicked his tongue and winked. “Could be for the next, what, fifteen minutes?”

“Is that all?” Greg said as he teased along John’s jaw with his tongue, making him breathe harder and faster as they frotted against each other with short, jerky movements.

“Probably all you’ve got time for.”

The D.I. rumbled into his new playmate’s ear. "How'd you want it, mate?"

John grabbed a fistful of silvery hair and pulled the other man up to glare hotly into his deep, brown eyes.

"Hard,” he husked. “Fast. Rough."

Greg swallowed audibly and his sensitised cock strained painfully against his trousers. "Yeah? Don't want too much messing around?"

"Nah. Want to feel it after. Need something to liven up this bloody trip.”

In one forceful motion, Greg spun his conference shag round by the shoulders and ground himself into his taught backside. Better get both their pants down quickly, or there’d be nasty, obvious staining, he thought.

"Put your hands on the door and keep 'em there,” he growled. John shuddered at the coarse command and did as he was told, spreading his legs helpfully.

“Oi, oi. You’ve done this before, haven’t you, my lad?” growled the D.I, wolfishly.

He rummaged at John’s crotch, speedily unbuckling the man’s belt, undoing his fly, and dropping the trousers down round his ankles. Ah. No pants. Easy access. Slutty Sergeant. John heard the gratified intake of breath behind him and giggled, receiving a hard pinch to the left bum cheek as penance.

Greg swiftly released his own hard-on into the open air, letting his trousers and pants slip down his legs. He realised they’d need to keep things as clean as possible if he stood any chance of returning to the main hall decently, which, reluctantly, he would have to do.

"Er, got anything...?"

"Shirt pocket. S'enough," ground out the increasingly impatient man. Greg reached round and fished out a condom and a small foil square of lube. 

"Just this tiny little packet? Want a bit of friction, do you?"

"Yeah. Just shove it in, Inspector. I can take it," said the Sergeant, with cheeky arrogance, bending further forward for added enticement.

"Bet you can, Sarge,” said Greg, giving the pert arse a firm smack.

"Tom, please."

"Whatever. Don't really need to know your name anyway. You're just a dirty conference fuck."

John or Tom or whoever he was, shivered deliciously and closed his eyes. "Yeah..." 

Greg grumbled a bit as he opened the condom and started rolling it over his cock. "Hate these bloody things..." 

John snorted. "Gotta use protection if you're gonna pick up randos for a cupboard knee-trembler. You don’t know where I’ve been," he said, sounding slightly more like a lecturing medical man than a prick-teasing policeman.

"Don't usually.”

“Use rubbers or go out on the pull?”

“Either. Don’t need ‘em at home. And if I went shagging around all the time, him indoors'd go mad," said Greg, attempting to sound convincingly like the kind of man who a) only had one bloke to worry about, and b) would do something like this for real. _They’d all bloody go mad. And I’d be mad to even think about it._

"Should think so too,” said John, smilingly. “Still, a bit of nasty every now and then never hurt anyone."

"You might change your mind about that in a minute," quipped Greg, as he started working a tiny amount of lube around John’s twitching arsehole.

"Ooh… Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Shut up now. Don't need to hear your voice. I'm only using you for your arse, aren’t I?"

John bit his lip and moaned quietly to himself as the D.I., without gentleness, started pressing a large, thick finger inside him. He tried to relax and leaned further forward onto his hands for a better angle, spreading his legs even wider in the confines of the tiny space.

With no time to lose, Greg lined himself up with John’s tightly puckered hole, resistant at first, but opening gradually around his wide tip.

“Ooh, Johnny, love…,” he moaned, forgetting the game, as the hot flesh parted for him by degrees. Whatever nuances of sensation the condom removed, the thrill of the situation more than made up for. He reached round to stimulate his lover back to full hardness, which helped him loosen further, and he sank halfway towards his intended goal.

John grunted, tilted his hips and arched his back as he worked himself open on Greg’s thick length. He gritted his teeth against the onset of pain, and breathed through it to allow himself to accommodate it. “Oof. Big boy, ain’t ya?” he huffed, laughing slightly. He had asked for it rough – and hard, and fast - but he knew he wouldn’t get it until he was ready.

Greg snorted and squeezed the last remnants of lube from the packet before discarding it. He smeared it round the base of his penis and held the bottom of the condom in place between two fingers, steadying himself for John to work against. With his free hand, he rubbed at John’s sensitive perineum with light pressure, teased at his soft, velvety sack and played with his balls, coaxing him to greater pleasure. John whimpered and leaned even further down, practically flattening his back now to find the right trajectory.

“Yeah…there. Fuck! Greg…,” he groaned, feeling his head spin. Greg gasped as he was finally fully engulfed.

“Move,” demanded John, thrusting back with desperate little movements. He screwed his eyes closed and then moved up a little, and… “Oh, fuck! There. Please. Please! Fuck me. Fuck me in this fucking cupboard, Lestrade.”

Greg Lestrade was not a man who needed to be told twice. He repositioned himself until his back bumped against a shelving unit, nicely cushioned by towels.

He pushed into John in one firm slide and pulled smoothly out again, feeling the ridge of his cock head catching against the grasping, snug channel of his partner's arse. John groaned through clenched teeth as it suddenly got really, really good.

Greg’s eyes rolled back in his head and he let himself go, shoving ruthlessly into his grateful lover, braced obscenely against the door. He obeyed orders – rough, hard, fast. Quick and dirty. His world reduced down to the sizzling friction round his cock, the weight of desperate desire in his balls, and the breathtaking fluttering of his heart. He pulled John’s slim hips back with an iron grip, and fucked away at him like his life depended on it.

John started keening and moaning.

“Ssh…! John, too loud, love…”

“Ooh… uh-uh-uh…” He seemed to be actually exclaiming into the door instead of trying to restrain himself.

“Shu’p John, seriously…!” he hissed. Anyone passing through the corridor could hear that. He brought his hand round to cover his lover’s mouth. “Knew you couldn’t be…oh…quiet. Put a flannel in yer gob or something…”

“Mmfffck!” whined John, tugging frantically at his prick and pushing his arse into Greg desperately. Greg felt teeth on his fingers and winced as he was bitten upon.

“John! Oi… Ow! Let go… I’m gonna…”

And then, to Greg’s cold, instant horror, somebody knocked on the door.

“Nnnrg!” groaned John in protest, as Greg put the brakes on suddenly, in shock and about to panic. His life flashed before his eyes. At least, his career did. This could very well be the end of it.

“Ssh!” he urged, clamping his hand even harder round John’s mouth.

A polite cough was heard from the outside. Greg held his breath, heart thumping, his brain temporarily addled by the initial upsurge of pleasure and the subsequent plummet into a pit of fear. John, however, laughed excitedly, then reached towards the door handle and pulled it.

“May I be of assistance, sirs?” said Mycroft Holmes from the doorway, as smoothly and graciously as though he were offering to take their coats at a dinner party. He wore an all-black suit with a black shirt and tie, a shiny gold badge on his lapel, and the smuggest smile Greg had ever seen on a grown man’s face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” exclaimed Greg, completely, marvellously outraged. He glared daggers at the man in black and resumed thrusting into John, just to make a point.

Mycroft hesitated theatrically, then squeezed himself in to the tiny room, closing the door behind him. John now braced himself against this latest addition to the party, clinging to his broad chest while he was resolutely done from behind.

“No, please, don’t let me stop you, gentlemen,” said Mycroft aridly, planting a loving kiss to John’s forehead. He looked up at Greg’s perspiring face and raised an amused eyebrow, receiving a look that promised future retribution. Undoubtedly a result. 

“Harder, Greg. Oh, faster...,” whispered John, hoarsely. Greg picked up the pace, racing for the finish now, channelling all his adrenaline into it. The smouldering look in Mycroft’s eyes was enough to tip him over the edge, and he growled in his chest as he reached crisis point, pulsating again and again into the condom lodged up John’s narrow arse.

Mycroft removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket, and brought it to John’s cock as he gave a broken little moan, just in time to catch his semen as it shot out in ropes. Not a single streak landed amiss, and he smiled with self-satisfaction at a job well done.

Greg, panting and leaning on John’s back, extracted himself from his body and carefully slid the hated condom off. Mycroft took it from him without so much as a grimace and wrapped it in the soiled handkerchief as well.

He tutted and shook his head, reproachfully.

“Nothing worse than a dirty copper,” he drawled.

Greg snorted. “Yeah, well, there's a reason they call us The Filth, in't there?”

John merely giggled and swiped behind him at Greg’s thighs with a lazy hand as if to say ‘nice one, mate.’ Mycroft disguised his own giggle as a dignified cough.

After a few vital minutes of recovery, redressing, and double-checking for telltale wet patches, Mycroft slipped out of the room, pocketing the revolting handkerchief to dispose of later. He glanced up and down the corridor, then waved the others out into the open. He escorted them out to the lift again, where none of them spoke, but all of them exchanged knowing, flirtatious glances until they were led back into the hotel foyer.

John threw his jacket over his shoulder with a rakish air. He winked at Greg, ignoring Mycroft entirely.

"Buy you a drink later, mate?" he said, in character. Greg blinked, still stupid from the rush of sex hormones.

"Er. Yeah. Mine's a pint of I.P.A, cheers. See you at the bar?"

"6ish, I guess."

"Cool."

"I'll let you get on with your lunch, then."

John waved cheekily as he sauntered off.

The man in the black suit cleared his throat courteously.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction in the hotel, thus far, sir?”

Greg turned to face him, hands on hips.

“Well, actually… Can’t complain, no.”

“Excellent. We do endeavour to give satisfaction.” All charm and oily obsequiousness. It made quite a change to see a Holmes being deferential. Greg decided he could get used to it

“Do you, now?”

“Indeed, sir. Please feel free to come to me for any service you may require. It is my job, after all. We take great pleasure in providing for your every need.” 

"And, for future reference, if I want to speak to you again, who should I be asking for?"

"William Hartnell is my name."

"Is it bloody really?" said Greg, nodding sardonically.

The man seemed mildly bemused. "Well, of course it is. As you can see from my official Concierge badge here. Name badges are foolproof and never wrong, as I’m sure you know. You may check my HR records if you doubt it. I even have a passport. Possibly a mortgage."

"Not Christopher Ecclestone or Paul McGann?"

"I think not. First is best. Besides, I definitely don't look like someone called Chris or Paul, do I?"

"Suppose not, no. Sylvester McCoy?"

"I wonder if Sir might need a lie down. Sir seems confused."

"Sir is bloody livid!"

"Surely not, sir?"

"No, not really, but... Bloody hell!" 

“While you’re here… A small word of warning, sir. We have reason to believe there may be miscreants on the loose. Possibly a gang, but equally likely to be a solo opportunist. And at a police conference of all places. Most embarrassing."

“Oh, God. Got it. Right.”

“So if you do see anything suspicious…”

“Enjoy it and keep schtum?”

“If you would, sir. Perhaps I shall see you later. Have a very informative and, er, entertaining time at your conference. Do feel free to seek me out if anything…untoward should occur."

Greg eyed him suspiciously. "Oh, I will. _William_."

"Ta-ta for now. Oh, wait,” he said, holding up a finger and turning back to the reception desk. He smiled charmingly at the young woman operating the phones, who beamed up at him flirtatiously.

It was astounding what a nice suit and a name badge could accomplish in the way of minor fraud. That, and a small run of falsified emails and letters at the end of last week from ‘Head Office’, informing the management that they were sending an assessor in the guise of a new Concierge to evaluate the staff’s conduct and efficiency, and that this information was strictly confidential. No better way to guarantee that everyone knew and was going out of their way to be extremely cooperative with Mr Hartnell.

Mycroft retrieved a small black valise from a cupboard in the wall, saying, “Excuse me, Lucinda, thank you”, to the smiling receptionist.

 “You nearly forgot your case, sir. It looks very important,” he said, proffering it to Greg.

Greg took it, rolling his eyes in sheer incredulity.

"Right. Thank you. Guessing I shouldn't open it anywhere too public?"

The concierge frowned at this bizarre statement. "I really couldn't say, sir, but I'm sure you're quite correct. Best kept in your room, I should think."

“Yeah, I bet. Perhaps you could see to it?”

“Of course, sir. All part of the service.”

“See you round, then, Mr Hartnell, or Jeeves, or whatever you prefer.”

The man bowed slightly, and gestured him back towards the conference hall.

Greg felt stunned, like he’d been bashed on the head with a sock full of bricks. His stomach growled insistently and he only just had time to grab a couple of very dry, curly sandwiches before the afternoon session. He didn’t really care. The buzz of recent sex and the sheer joy of the complex, unfathomable layers of roleplay and mischief going on around him were enough to make him alert and lively again. Just the boring conference sessions to get through before whatever evening fun was in store for him. He couldn’t wait.

Smiling confidentially to himself, he retook his seat in the main conference hall. A few hundred people had filled the seats, flicking through their programmes to see what was coming next, every single one of them wondering when the bar opened.

A grey man came and stood behind the lectern on the main stage area. Microphone feedback screamed through the PA system, inciting mass groans and winces.

"Ahem, sorry, everyone,” he stammered. “Just a bit of an announcement. Erm, our scheduled speaker unfortunately had to drop out a few days ago due to…unforeseen circumstances, so there is a bit of a last-minute change to your programme. We’re very grateful to have an alternative guest-speaker, who has kindly stepped into the breach, and who I’m sure will be even better. Speaking on the subject of, erm… ‘Errors at Crime Scenes in the Inner London Area.’ Please join me in welcoming advisor to the Home Office and freelance criminologist, Professor Matthew Tennant.”

And, finally, with all the flourish of Sir Lawrence Olivier in his heydey, in waltzed Sherlock Holmes, resplendent and cocky as sin. He wore a slightly loose pair of navy chinos, a blue checked shirt with a nerdy bowtie and a slim-fitting unmatching blazer. A pair of thick square glasses adorned his patrician features, and his hair was greased flat to his head, curling sweetly up around his ears. The overall impression was of a life spent entirely in think-tanks and conference halls. Every inch the Oxbridge government policy wonk who'd never done a day of fieldwork in his life - the exact sort that all police officers hated on sight.

Greg had to stop himself groaning out loud, and settled for merely covering his eyes with his hands. He prayed to a higher power for the professional composure he’d surely never know again. He was rattled. He was chilled to the marrow. He was, against all biological sense, getting hard again.

The masquerading Professor coughed ostentatiously into the microphone, causing it to emit another excruciating squeal of protest.

"It's Matt, actually,” he disparagingly admonished his introducer. “Matt Tennant. No-one calls me Matthew. But whatever," he said, brusquely. "Now, you lot.” He rubbed his hands in anticipatory glee. “Here's what's wrong with your current crime scene procedures - which is to say, _everything_ \- and here's how you can make it all better - by which I mean, pay attention and do everything I tell you. Later I’ll come on to the childish flaws in your evidence processing, the amateurish mistakes in your data collection, and, you know, your repeated failures in the actual catching of criminals. Right?"

Oh, fuck, thought Greg. We’re in trouble. He's got slides and a pointy-stick thing.

Sherlock began his obviously very well-rehearsed, impassioned lecture. And a more literal application of that term there had never been. It could have only been more accurately termed if it had been introduced as a guest hector. For hectoring is what he did. He hectored them, and railed and ranted at them, and finally said all the extremely helpful things he’d wanted to say to idiot police officers throughout his entire career, but had just never had the time for. All with the aid of slides, a pointy-stick thing, and a superior attitude that would have put a German Formula One driver to shame.

Greg grimaced like he was watching a slow motion road accident.

“Slide 14,” said the Prof, combatively. “A lesson here on how not to move a partially-decapitated body, as one oafish unit from south London discovered to their cost. Literally. Horrendous cleaning bill… And Slide 15: how to reunite a corpse with the _correct_ head…”

The barrage of abuse went on and on.

 “And I think you’ll see what I mean by ‘willful pig-headed ignorance’ when I show you Slide 37…”

Greg cast around the hall in the hope of finding Mycroft or John. No sign of the elder Holmes. He wondered whether he was outside in a getaway car waiting to whisk Sherlock out of here as soon as this stream of invective was over. They might need one. He was relieved to see John over in the far corner, lurking by the exit doors. His face was a picture. Odd. He looked as surprised as Greg felt, and also a bit more pissed off than he expected.

"Now we come to Slide 53: mind-blowingly stupid ways of contaminating blood samples…,’ continued the Professor, unabated.

It had started aggressively enough, but, if anything, the lecture got increasingly vociferous and critical as it went on - and it went on for an hour. By the half-hour mark there were audible groans and disgruntled murmurings from the audience, which grew ominously louder around the 45 minute mark, and almost broke out into a physical altercation towards the end.

There is actually going to be a riot, thought Greg. _Wonder who polices a load of rioting police officers? Never seen that before…_

At the end of the speech, Professor Matt-not-Matthew Tennant bowed as though he’d performed a particularly astonishing and popular magic trick, waving pleasantly at the seething crowd as though they were all terrific fans. A few of the conference organisers, their faces bloodless and gaunt, shielded him from the odd Styrofoam coffee cup and apple core being pelted his way. There was an undertone of hissing from somewhere in the room.

The Professor removed himself from the hall with haste, and anyone looking closely would have noted a broad, toothy grin on his face as he was bundled through the door. Only Greg noted that he was followed out by a certain randy fake Sergeant, lately seen ducking into a utility closet for a quick and dirty buggering.

Greg breathed a sigh of relief now it was over, glad that John seemed to be on the case. He was trapped in the conference until 5pm, like it or not, but the lads would surely have things under control by the time he emerged. He tried his damndest to focus on the remaining sessions, all the while wondering what the hell they were getting up to out there.

"Yes, thank you, no autographs, please,” Sherlock was calling to anyone who’d listen. “No, I’ll find my own way back, thanks. Good, wasn’t it? Think they had a great time.” He was all but frog-marched into the lobby where John finally caught up with him, and gripped his elbow from behind.

“Come with me _Professor,_ there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he growled, with a hard, fake smile on his face. They were finally left alone, Sherlock wriggled from his grip and raced for a door off one side of the foyer.

“What the fuck was that?!” railed John, chasing a triumphant and soaring Sherlock up a set of back stairs.

“Glorious, wasn’t it?!” he crowed wildly, throwing his arms wide and twirling as he reached a landing. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that!”

“You were magnificent, darling,” said Mycroft, smiling fondly as he emerged seemingly out of nowhere in the backstage staff corridor.

“You knew about this, Myc?!” said John, turning to him in outrage.

Mycroft nodded soothingly. “Of course, my dear. It’s quite all right. We scoured and back-checked the list of delegates. There’s no-one he’s worked with before, and even if someone thought he looked a bit like some glamourous detective they may have read about in the paper once, people only see what they want to see. Especially when they’re being insulted.”

“But, I mean…” protested John, reaching for coherent words.

“Calm yourself, Doctor Watson. I promise, it’s all perfectly fine.”

John scoffed. “Perfectly fine! He just eviscerated a couple of hundred vengeful coppers at their own bloody conference. He’ll get the shit kicked out of him if they catch up with him!”

Sherlock sighed extravagantly. “Boring, John. Don’t be boring.” John bristled.

Mycroft shot a warning look at his brother, now too high on his own brilliance to worry about social or romantic niceties.

“Really, John, it is all right,” he said, reassuringly. “They’re not going to catch up with him. We still have Phase Two to come, and he won’t look remotely like the Professor. As far as they’re concerned, he’s just some upstart from central government who’s gone crawling back to his policy documents. Aside from sharing their displeasure over drinks later, it’ll all be forgotten about by tomorrow. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you what we had planned there…” he said, hitting the heart of John’s disgruntlement.

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice to be included… Thought we were in this together,” he grumbled.

“We wanted it to be a surprise, John!” said Sherlock, grinning madly. “And possibly I may have thought you’d try to talk me out of it… But you _were_ surprised, and you didn’t have to worry about it in advance, so it all worked out. Anyway, my big brother let me do it as a present,” he said, making cow eyes at Mycroft.

“A present for what?!” exclaimed John. “You don’t deserve presents, you. You deserve sectioning.”

“Rude. But, actually, what was my present for, Mycie?”

“I forget, sweetheart. I don’t always need a reason to treat you, do I? For making up with Gregory so prettily last week? I think it was just for being a very good boy,” said Mycroft, indulgently.

“But I’m always a very good boy,” said Sherlock, puzzled.

John snorted insultingly and Sherlock glared at him.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon,” pleaded Mycroft. “Perhaps we can find some way of making it up to you, John? Hmm? I know just the thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, interested despite himself. “I’m not up to much myself. Greg’s done me in a bit. My own bloody fault, I did say I wanted to feel it...” He winced slightly and rubbed at his arse.

“Don’t have to do anything, John. You still have eyes in your head, don’t you?” said Mycroft, casting him a heated look.

John considered this statement. “Yeah. Perhaps sitting delicately and watching something would be relaxing.”

Sherlock whinged. “Mycie, Mycie, come on! Want to go now. All happy. Need to play.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, vibrating with unspent energy.

"Wait. Gregory didn’t follow on, did he?" said Mycroft, looking round.

"No, he was stuck in the middle of a row of seats,” confirmed John.

"But that doesn't mean we can't! Can't wait on Greg. Seeing him later. I want it now!"

"Aw, worried you might be left unattended to? I know, dearest, I know. Still plenty of hours in the day," said Mycroft, comfortingly. "We shall catch up with our esteemed D.I.”

“Now can we _go_?!” urged Sherlock, stamping a petulant foot.

“Yes, yes, Lock, here we go. I’ve found us a delightful room.”

“Oooh, is it…?”

“Yes, baby boy. Honeymoon suite.”

“Yay!” Sherlock jumped up and down. “Come _on_!” He dragged his brother by the hand, practically levitating with desperation.

Mycroft chuckled fondly. “Can you believe, they actually have one? In a three-star hotel. In Cardiff!”

Mycroft led them to the very top of the building via the staff staircase, with Sherlock bounding and barging and shoving them along. They emerged back into the public area of the hotel, onto the very top floor, with its sole room. Mycroft waved a passkey at the door and it opened to reveal a large suite, modest in comparison to most of its kind, but comfortable enough, with a big, comfy bed, and its own lift access for additional privacy.

“Tell me we’re not going to get interrupted by Mr and Mrs Whoever coming in for their first married shag?” griped John, looking around furtively.

Mycroft’s grey eyes twinkled. “No, dear. Not on a Wednesday. It’s unbooked and I’ve taken it off the system, so it can only be accessed by the skeleton pass card I had Anthea make for me.”

“Poor Anthea! How much work has she put into our dirty conference? And she’s not had anything from it at all,” said John, vehemently. Sherlock glared daggers at him.

“I might let her have some of the CCTV footage. There’s none inside the rooms, of course. But some of the to-ing and fro-ing might amuse. She can use her imagination.”

“You’re giving Anthea wank-fodder?!” squealed Sherlock in revulsion. “How do you know she won’t just sell it to the Russians anyway?”

Mycroft tutted. "Dearest, the secret to secrecy is that nothing can be truly secret. In order for two people to have complete trust, they must have no secrets whatsoever. Anthea and I have trust. Quite aside from the fact we both know some incredibly compromising things about each other in a mutually-assured destruction kind of arrangement, we have the added advantage of liking each other enormously, which is more significant when it comes to loyalty and defence."

"Wait, you know all of Anthea's dark and dirty secrets, do you...?" queried John, feigning indifference.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. "And he won't tell you what they are, John, so don't even ask, you pervert. I don't even want to know what that she-devil gets up to. Yuck!"

"Yes, you do, Lock. We are cut from the same cloth. She's practically a Holmes."

"No, she isn't!"

"Bloody hell, that's quite a compliment,” said John, awestruck. He hadn’t realised it was quite as serious as that.

Mycroft nodded. "Merely accurate. You already know she…assists me with Lock’s bad behaviour on occasion...” Sherlock scowled at him. “Well, Anthea is a deviant genius quite after our own hearts, and would rather die than betray a fellow libertine. It is a badge of honour for her. A point of deeply-held principle, professionally and personally. Those who seek to expose consensual deviance which harms no-one – the new Puritans - must be defeated more urgently than international geopolitical saboteurs, for they are saboteurs of the human soul. So CCTV footage shall be granted unto her, say I. Let her have her voyeuristic thrill."

"Except she won't be able to smell us in the air like you will, John...,” said Sherlock, fixing him with a seductive smirk. John went a bit wobbly.

“Fab. Right. Mine’s the armchair. You two, make it worth my while climbing all those bloody stairs.”

“Oh, I’m sure we shall,” husked Mycroft, discarding his jacket on the bed and loosening his top shirt buttons.

John sat back, grinning as Sherlock stalked up to his brother. He tore his bowtie off with intentional flair and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he did something John had only seen actresses do in stupid romcoms – he whipped off his geeky professorial glasses and shook his hair out seductively, like the 1950s librarian who turns out to be a hot minx after all. Sherlock was indeed a hot minx though, he reflected, so perhaps he had every right to resort to the cliché.

Sherlock came to rest inches away from Mycroft, whose mouth had fallen open slightly, rendering him uncharacteristically dumbfounded and slack-jawed. He grabbed his elder brother’s hands and held them tightly, looking him square in the eye as some significant silent thought passed between them. John regarded the pair with interest, as a meaningful pause and telepathic Holmesian communication ensued.

“My,” intoned Sherlock, the nickname they used only in particular and rare circumstances falling like a benediction from his lips.

Ah, thought John. So that’s what it is. _Wow._

“Oh,” said Mycroft, flushing a little in pleasant surprise. “Y-yes, Sherlock?”

Use of the full name, John noted. Yep. Definitely going to be worthwhile sticking around.

“Will you let me?” asked Sherlock, sincerely, brushing a hand gently down his brother’s cheek.

Mycroft pretended to think about it. “Hmm. Will I let you…?”

“Pleeeease? I have been a very good boy. And you liked my lecture, didn’t you?” he wheedled for show, knowing the answer was already given in his favour.

“It was excellent. Well-delivered, persuasively argued. Undeniably steeped in sound evidence. Very amusing altogether,” agreed Mycroft.

“Let me, then. Want it.” Sherlock leaned in to mouth gently at his brother’s neck, bringing his hands round to massage and caress his firm backside. He started undoing his belt and trousers in anticipation of his answer.

"Whatever you want, dearest, always,” said Mycroft in a hoarse, choked voice. “What will make you happy?"

"You,” came the deep, rumbling response. “Under me."

Mycroft’s eyes went black as his pupils blew wide open. He groaned into his brother’s mouth as he was possessively kissed, his head caressed between his brother’s cool, elegant hands. In that moment, power was exchanged; the bargain sealed.


	3. Honeymoon Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some S/M/J smut, heavy on the Holmescest, which advances the plot (such as it is) virtually nowhere. The boys celebrate getting away with it so far. :) x

John sat back gawping as Sherlock subtly shifted from his playfully submissive persona into the quietly powerful, predatorial one he was capable of switching on when the moment required. In equal and opposite reaction, Mycroft’s shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly, and his head dropped ever so slightly as his outward bearing became less rigid, less composed. John clocked the exact moment when control of the game passed from one to the other.

This dynamic was indeed rarer than their usual one, but by no means unprecedented. They were set in their ways for the most part. Sherlock liked it on (and up) the bottom so much they almost forgot this was an option. But it didn't do to become predictable. Sherlock hardly felt the need to dominate his elder brother, but he had no aversion to topping him when the mood was right. It typically happened after some act of derring-do, some lucky escape or piece of heroism. Sometimes it was Mycroft’s way of congratulating him, or celebrating with him, or just being glad they’d survived something. Sometimes it was just fun.

The daft lecture had been the catalyst this time. Sherlock had given a tour-de-force performance, and Mycroft - never one to resist a good bit of theatre, and being hopelessly in love with the talented star of the show - had gone all soppy for him.

“Take it all off,” demanded Sherlock, still holding his brother’s head in his hands, fixing him with a fierce glare. “Sock garters included. I want you without a stitch on. So I can see every inch of you.”

“Darling…,” hesitated Mycroft, suddenly self-conscious at the intense scrutiny from both his lovers.

He had long since gotten over any mild squeamishness he felt about being vulnerable to his brother in this way, but he was less used to being entirely _displayed_ like this. He bottomed for John all the time, but having him witness as he gave himself over to Sherlock was still rather unusual, though his presence always heightened the experience. Somehow he felt less embarrassed under Greg’s gaze, and would happily debase himself in all kinds of ways for his viewing pleasure. But a part of him still craved to impress John and win his approval. Rationally, he knew he already had it, but this minor insecurity - coupled with his inherent introversion - made him uncharacteristically bashful in front of him sometimes.

Sherlock sensed reticence. He stepped back a little without relinquishing his hold, and said firmly, but not unkindly, “My. You’re gorgeous as you are, in your birthday suit - my favourite of all your outfits. Let me and John enjoy it.” His tone brooked no argument.

Mycroft shook off his remaining nerves, telling himself not to be so bloody ridiculous. He raised a cool eyebrow, removed himself from his brother’s grip and let his lovers see him as he stripped. He stood naked before them, trying to hold himself with confidence and good posture; pale but flushing pink across his chest and neck; toned but appealingly fleshly and touchable; statuesque but ever-so-slightly defenceless. It was a heady combination, and Sherlock wanted to wrap him up and hold onto him.

“Beautiful,” breathed John, and Mycroft looked across at him with fond gratitude. John blew him a little air kiss of encouragement, and Sherlock turned round for one of his own. He grinned vampirically at John, his eyes heavily-lidded and sultry.

“Want to watch me and my brother have sex?” he said, with filthy provocation, his voice gravelly and base. The so-wrong words just so-fucking-right.

John threw his head back against the back of the armchair. “Oh, bloody hell… Don’t say it like that, it’s too horny, I won’t survive it….” He hastily undid his trousers and slid his hand into them to languidly stroke his stiffening cock. He was still a bit too sensitive from his towel cupboard quickie, but sod it.

“How else can I say it?! ‘Make love with each other?’” said Sherlock, fake-prudishly. “Want to watch me and my brother _fucking_?” Then, in his richest, poshest voice: “Want to watch me coming up my big brother’s delicious arse, John?”

John groaned helplessly. Mycroft looked like he might keel over at any minute, his cock at half-mast. His hand twitched but he didn’t want to touch himself until given express permission.

“Usually the other way round, isn’t it?” Sherlock continued rhetorically, as he stripped his Professor costume off with casual confidence. “Me bending over for him, or putting my legs up on his shoulders while he takes me hard, or bouncing on his cock. But sometimes, Johnnyboy, sometimes, I like it like this. And he likes it like this. And I always know when.”

John nodded, understanding.

“Yeah, babe. I know. Love it when you do this, you two. Magic,” breathed John, masturbating with steady, familiar rhythm.

“Doesn’t just let me do it when I’m a good boy either,” Sherlock continued, solemnly, kicking his trousers away. He ran his hands slowly down his sinewy thighs and all the way back up to caress his lightly-muscled abdomen, plumping up his thickening cock along on the way. He pinched at his nipples, biting down on his lower lip in deliberate provocation, and ran his hands through his hair to fluff it up a little.

“Sometimes he likes it better when I’m a bad boy. Sometimes he _begs_ me for it. Because he can and I’ll always say yes. Because my brother denies me nothing - and he can have whatever he wants of me in return. No matter how much we piss each other off,” he said, as though this were news to John Watson, of all people.

Sherlock smiled silkily, then turned, giving John a prize view of his magnificently lush backside. He prowled towards Mycroft, shoving at his chest and pushing him back until his legs hit the end of the bed. The elder Holmes tumbled down upon it with a slight ‘oof’ of surprise, then positioned himself further up at his brother’s urging.

Sherlock crawled onto the bed with seductive, feline movements, moving up the length of Mycroft’s body - both of them naked and panting - until their bare pricks met with an electrically-charged touch. Mycroft cried out as though caught unawares by the shock.

“Sher…,” he groaned weakly, his head spinning already.

Just as Sherlock used ‘My’ when he topped, Mycroft used this abbreviation or some mangled, cut-off version of the full name when he granted his little brother such intimate access to his body.

Sherlock practically purred. “Mm. Yes, My?”

“Please...,” he whispered.

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock. “Lube?”

“Jacket.”

Sherlock rummaged for it. “You’re mistaken, brother. Your inside pocket seems to contain only Lestrade and Watson’s combined DNA,” he said, producing a revolting handkerchief with no disgust whatsoever. “No, wait. Here it is.”

Sherlock moved back on top of his brother’s prone form as it writhed with unmet need.

John watched as the Holmes boys rolled together - snogging, rubbing, grasping and grappling at each other as though life depended upon it. Which perhaps it did. Sherlock controlled the pace, humping eagerly between his brother’s thighs one minute, lazily stroking his balls the next; or caressing his stomach, scratching wildly at his back, pinching his nipples viciously. He alternated between hot passion and cool detachment to drive the other man out of his mind with confused sensation, whilst remaining attentive to his every unspoken want. Their harsh panting exhalations and gentle whimpers filled the room.

Sherlock brought himself up onto all fours, giving John a staggering view of his arse spread high and wide. Mycroft lay wantonly outstretched beneath him, eyes rolled back in ecstatic reverie. Then, agonisingly slowly, Sherlock slid down his body, licking and biting at him, tickling his stomach with sweat-loosened curls. Mycroft writhed helplessly, gasping and murmuring nonsense.

Sherlock came to rest between his spread legs and played gently with his velvety balls, pressing at the ridge of his delicate perineum to push him even further towards madness. He kissed his brother’s long, pale thighs, and at the creases where his legs met his pelvis; he nuzzled into the apex of his pubic hair, skittering over his hip bones with tongue and lips. He touched and tasted everywhere but the rigid, quivering cock which strained urgently for his attention.

“Please, Sher… Do it, do it…,” Mycroft whispered, barely audibly.

John, his brain fuzzy and slow, tried to tune in to the words, but he gave it up as a bad job and rose from his chair to get nearer to the action. He knelt by the side of the bed to catch in close-up the exact moment when Sherlock breathed directly onto his brother’s twitching prick, making it jump and leak clear fluid onto his belly.

Sherlock nosed at his brother’s groin - under his sack, along his prick, between his thighs - breathing in the unique pheromones that rendered him near-insatiable. He inhaled that ineffable, heady scent, letting it fire up his senses until he was giddy with the need to taste him.

He pressed his lips to the pink, swollen tip of Mycroft’s inflamed cock, gripping his thick shaft firmly with one hand, and lapped kittenishly at the slit, taking the pearly, salty drops which wept from it onto his nimble tongue and swirling them round his mouth. 

"Fu-u-uck...," moaned John, appreciatively.

Mycroft’s breath left him in a high whine and his hips thrust upwards for more - for anything at all - but Sherlock pulled away, denying him.

“Your mouth, oh, your mouth…,” murmured Mycroft, in a trancelike state. John encroached upon the bed now, bringing himself to lie curled up next to the elder brother whilst the younger hovered below them. He stroked Mycroft’s red-brown hair and kissed his smooth temple, staying quiet as he took in the extraordinary sight of the Holmes boys at play.

Sherlock winked up at him, cheekily, his eyes dilated coal-black with desire. _Look at me, John. See how clever I am? See how my brother adores me?_

John bit Mycroft’s earlobe in response, smirking. _Prove it._

Mycroft whinged again, thrusting his groin up against nothing. John shushed him gently.

Sherlock waited until his brother calmed a little, then dropped his head back down to lick at the dripping head of his finely-sculpted penis, using his pointy canines to add contrast and a sense of risk to the act. John hummed with satisfaction into Mycroft’s ear, the sound mixing with the other man’s deep, guttural groan. Then, finally, Sherlock opened his beautiful bowlike mouth, and closed it over the plump head entirely, his shapely lips pouting obscenely forward.

Mycroft made a continuous high sound like a pining puppy dog. His hand shot forth and he tightly gripped his brother's hair as he went fully down on him - his own mouth agape in a perpetual, soundless gasp. His bright eyes were wide open and he stared down at his luminous brother with amazement; utterly stunned by the extremity of how good this always felt.

Sherlock hummed deep in his throat, setting off another round of outrageous, bestial noise - some of which was Mycroft’s, some his own, and some of which was also John’s. He smiled widely around his brother's warm, wet cock, as his hair was pulled harder and harder. Perfect resistance, perfect pain. It shivered through his spinal cord and cranked his need up another impossible notch.

He sucked and twirled his tongue along the ridge of Mycroft’s prick, teasing at his frenulum, squeezing the base with his hand, and driving his head up and down, again and again, until the tip of his brother’s cock met his throat. Mycroft seemed to come apart at the seams.

John reached for his own throbbing hard-on and began pumping it in sync with Sherlock’s sucking and bobbing.

Mycroft could stand it no longer. He was right on the cusp of climax, his whole body shaking with it.

"Oh! Finish me... Finish me!" he wailed desperately, unashamed to be heard begging so soon for release into his brother's mouth.

John grinned down at Sherlock, who pulled off with a wet pop. "Nng-nnh. Nope," he said, punctuating the plosive of the final word just to emphasise his point.

Mycroft practically howled. "No, no…don't stop! I'll be _so_ good to you. Let me finish! I'm nearly...I'm all...and...” He was so close to thwarted release he felt he could burst into tears.

"Nah,” said Sherlock, carelessly. “Not until I've filled you with my spunk and made you all disgusting,"

"Bastard-fucking sadist!" sobbed his brother; equal parts dismayed, furious, and delighted.

John suppressed a chuckle. Desperate Mycroft was a wonder of the world, as far as he was concerned.

"That's me, big brother," confirmed Sherlock, proudly.

"No, it isn't, it's me!"

"Yeah. Serves you right, then, doesn't it? You love stopping when you're doing it to me. You get off on my distress. This is payback."

"Not fair!"

“Life isn’t. Now, let me have your arse,” he commanded, perfunctorily.

What else to do but comply?

"No need to be so romantic,” Mycroft said, sardonically, recovering himself slightly. “Come on, then, fuck the daylights out of me." He threw an arm over his face in an attitude of 'take me', then bent his knees and spread his legs, all self-consciousness evaporated.

"Stop being pushy. You're not in the market for pushiness right now, OK?" scolded Sherlock, as he lubricated his fingers up.

Mycroft peered out from under his arm. "I concede that may be true. If I were to say...please?"

"Ah, well, please is the magic word, brother mine. Please will get you very far indeed."

John grinned as the Holmes boys fucked each other linguistically; their typical prelude to the physical act. They now seemed to be swapping roles entirely, each playing the other. It happened sometimes. A little bit of topsy-turvy to add piquancy to an already rather spicy situation.

"Please then, bloody please. Stop banging on and start banging _me_ ," demanded Mycroft, Sherlockishly.

Sherlock raised a superior Mycroftian eyebrow. "Such a shameless little tart."

He smirked as he brought Mycroft’s legs up with both hands, bending them back over his brother’s head so his dainty arsehole was completely exposed to him. Mycroft supported his hips with his hands to balance himself in the, for him, rather outlandish position. Sherlock held him there, braced upon one forearm, and then twiddled a wet finger round the star-outlined rim of the rosy little hole; circling it, dipping in a bit but not far enough to count. Mycroft groaned as Sherlock teased at his entrance, stopping short of penetration, and seeing how long he could wait until…

"Sher! Do it! For the love of God!" he shouted in atypical frustration. 

"Nothing up the bum if you backchat me,” Sherlock said, sternly, enjoying himself by channelling a bit of Greg into the role. 

John laughed and moved to prop himself back against the headboard, pecking an upside-down kiss onto Mycroft’s forehead as he went.

"John!" appealed the poor, put-upon red-head.

"Sorry, mate. You're the one who let him get on top of you. Have to put up with him now, won't you?"

"No help at all, Watson," Mycroft growled, hoping his dignity was not compromised by the fact he was naked and folded in half beneath his intolerable brother.

John smiled sweetly. "Didn't intend to be.”

Sherlock cut the banter off in its prime, with the swift insertion of his forefinger. Mycroft sighed almost in relief as the longer middle finger joined it. He breathed into the intrusion, bearing down and letting himself relax into the exquisite pleasure-pain of it. Sherlock thrust his fingers back and forth, insinuating deeper into the slick, convulsing passage of his brother’s backside. He crooked his fingers to brush against his nerve-centre and Mycroft thrashed wildly, disrupting his rhythm.

John resumed wanking himself as he enjoyed the rare pleasure of watching the British Government being deftly prepared for a solid fuck.

Sherlock had three fingers up him now, and John could see a sheen of sweat over both their flushed faces. After a little more stretching and scissoring, Sherlock brought his brother’s legs back down and off to the side. Mycroft flopped over onto his front but Sherlock repositioned him and came to rest behind him so they were both lying on their sides, loosely spooning. Mycroft obligingly raised his arms, reaching up towards John, who held one of his hands, anchoring him reassuringly. Then he spread his legs apart, bringing one bent knee forward and twisting at the hips so his arse tilted upwards for his brother’s attention.

Sherlock greased up his own cock, bringing himself back to raging stiffness. He bit down on his brother’s shoulder, breathing heavily into his moist flesh, then threw one leg over Mycroft’s outer thigh. John watched through a fog of lust as Sherlock guided himself to the exposed, well-lubricated hole, and breached him slowly from behind.

Mycroft exhaled a shuddering breath as he was filled, throwing his head up and back, his spine arching as he sought the best angle. Sherlock’s head swam as he was squeezed and opened-for. His face burned with heat as pleasure thrummed from the base of his balls to the top of his head, minor muscle spasms beginning already. When he was fully seated within his brother’s stretched channel, he leaned up on one arm, placing the opposite hand on his brother’s hip for leverage, and gave an experimental thrust. Mycroft moaned.

"Not hurting you?" he choked out. He always asked. 

Mycroft shook his head, grunting and puffing. "Far from. Oh, brother mine…"

Then Sherlock began to move, gently at first, but then with harder and longer strokes, pushing his brother’s body into the bed with force as he rolled his hips lasciviously against him. Mycroft felt his world reduce down to this one experience - this complex yet embarrassingly simplistic set of physical sensations - and let himself be manhandled and pressed, and fucked and loved. They settled into an easy, familiar pace.

"You're gorgeous like this," Sherlock rumbled into his brother’s ear.

Mycroft snorted. "Hardly."

"No arguing with Sherlock," said John, from above.

"No, dear."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yeah. You just lie there and fuck back on me and look like that. And behave yourself for once," he said, cheekily, echoing his brother's own frequent demands. “What do you know about how gorgeous you are?” he said, tapping Mycroft’s thigh in warning.

“Nothing,” he admitted, gritting his teeth as Sherlock plunged into him a little harder and faster.

“Nothing. So don’t bother contradicting me.”

“Yes, Sher.”

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle, then pulled himself together. He looked lovingly down at a perspiring and desperate Mycroft, and took him again and again, revelling in how their sweat-soaked bodies slipped and slid together. He was getting closer now, pinning his brother’s pliant body to the mattress, canting his hips back and forth with shorter, shallower thrusts. Mycroft was exclaiming with every thrust; a litany of _ohs_ and _ahs_ which delighted his lovers.

"Love...giving it...to you...oh, My. Such compression in you. Such a close fit round me," gasped Sherlock in a stunned voice.

“Love it…,” Mycroft agreed, brokenly. He twisted round to look up at his magnificent little brother, buoyant and self-assured after his latest convincing public fraud, and elated by the successful debauchery now ensuing. Their eyes met in a flash of fierce mutual adoration; an admission of their unique brand of Holmesian _folie_ _à deux._

Sherlock grinned and looked back up at John, riding high now. “Kindly observe, Watson,” he said, “how the British Government might be induced to make a noise like a whore in a harem, with the judicious application of a hip rotation at this precise angle... Mmm. And also - yeah, oh - that one. See?”

“Explain it to me again. I'm a bit slow,” said John, watching with fascination as the redoubtable Mycroft Holmes was masterfully puppeteered.

“Certainly. If you push his leg further over like that, hook it round your arm…and bend it 90 degrees here... The spine instantly responds with a concave flex, like so, and the hips cant upwards so you get a nice deep, direct hit on his little cluster of nerve endings - and he moans like a cheap rentboy.”

“Interesting theory, Holmes,” said John, amid cheap rentboy moans.

“Not merely a theory. A tried and tested data set. Been trying and testing that since I was 18, haven't I, My?”

"Mmm-hm!" he nodded, vigorously.

"And at this point, if you're generous, you can reach out and bring him off with a nice, slick hand. Or you can let him frig himself silly with his own. Or let him rub off on the bed, like he used to when he was a naughty teenager and thought no-one was watching. In this instance, it doesn't arise. Well, the organ does, but the question of friction doesn't. He's going to finish unaided by manual intervention. Aren't you, gorgeous?”

"What?!" Mycroft’s eyes flew open.

Suddenly Sherlock flipped their position – pulling out and manoeuvring them so that Mycroft lay on his back with his legs over his brother's shoulders. Sherlock held onto his brother’s thighs and entered him swiftly again, fucking him from a kneeing position. The altered angle meant he was battering Mycroft's spongy, sensitive prostate on every thrust, encouraging them both towards their peak. John groaned to see it, wondering, as he always did, how the hell this was his life.

Mycroft was getting frantic now, and reached down to grasp his cock with a shaky, fluttering hand. Sherlock slapped it away.

"No. No, get your grubby mitts off yourself. Not touching it. Want you to show John your lovely trick," he grunted, picking up his pace.

"But Sherlock…!" Mycroft grumbled fruitlessly, not minding a bit, really.

"Do it. Make yourself come. Mindgasm for John, yes?" 

"Yes, please.” John said, helpfully. Then in a sex-weakened tone, “Oh, look at him. Gagging for it. Raunchy little fucker…,” though it was unclear which of them he was referring to.

Mycroft nodded, bit his lip, screwed his eyes shut, and began to marshal his concentration. John watched, shaking his head in disbelief as Mycroft slipped into his private fantasy world, and his unattended cock ever-so-slightly jerked upwards from his groin.

Both Holmeses could bring themselves off without touch. A perverted little parlour trick they'd both perfected in the years of their sexual maturity. Both were able to reach an erotic meditative state, focusing in on the essential _idea_ of an orgasm in order to create one. It was not solely a mental process – they employed repetitive muscle contractions deep within, using pelvic floor exercises to twitch their cocks up and down, unaided by external stimulation. Though _why_ they wanted to do this, even occasionally, neither John nor Greg could fathom. Something to do with over-active brains; some incomprehensible Holmesian mind/body puzzle.

This wasn’t to be a pure mindgasm, however. Sherlock had no intention of ceasing his fucking and missing out on the sensation of Mycroft squeezing and releasing round his throbbing cock. With every touchless twitch, his brother's arse got tighter. Sherlock pummelled into him ruthlessly harder now, questing for release, chasing that flying feeling of total completion.

"Look at you, My,” he crooned. “All boneless and unresisting. Floppy everywhere except where it counts. So lax and pliable for me. Can just sink into you. All lovely and soft, you are..."

Sherlock heard the headboard bashing against the wall as he brutally fucked his brother. He looked up at John wanking himself faster in response, his face a mask of flushed, feral concentration - then down at Mycroft, who looked simply beatific with ecstasy. Without warning, the expression crumpled into devastation, and Mycroft’s mouth gaped open in sheer astonishment. He made a deep, visceral sound, like a wounded beast, and then his cock was pulsing in a frenzied eruption, spurting white viscosity over his stomach, his chest, and up to his chin. “Sher…” he was calling. “Sher…”

That was enough for Sherlock Holmes. He emitted a long, drawn-out whine as his cock was gripped and rubbed beyond bearing. Then he was melting inside his brother, branding him as his hot spend pulsed out, filling him up. His upper thighs and knees shook spasmodically; his stomach pulled in as his entire body vibrated, and the blood rushed in his ears. He snapped his hips and held them in place as he came, emptying the last of himself out, and using Mycroft’s legs to stop himself overbalancing. He moaned ardently, the word “My” falling repeatedly from his lips.

Neither Holmes consciously registered that John had rolled over and got up from the bed.

With a heartfelt sigh, Sherlock fell forward onto his spent brother without pulling out of his body. Mycroft, gasping for breath and chuckling with joy at the intensity of his orgasm, brought his arms round his little brother’s neck and kissed all over his finely-structured face - sweet little pecks of gratitude and affirmation. Sherlock licked at his brother’s chin, as though it were a grooming ritual, tasting stray semen and sweat. They panted exhaustedly into each other’s ears, enjoying their final aftershocks and basking in their mess.

“Stay where you are,” said John, gruffly, placing a hot hand on Sherlock’s back. He had moved round to stand behind Sherlock’s bent body, gazing down at the glorious sight of him with his softening cock still lodged inside his brother. Mycroft caught his eye over Sherlock’s shoulder, and John smouldered at him intently.

Sherlock craned his neck round, but John pushed his head back round with a firm hand.

“You Holmes boys,” he said, shaking his head. “Be the death of me yet. But what a fucking way to go, eh?”

He reached between their bodies, scooping up as much of Mycroft’s sperm as he could get, and rubbed it onto his own, still painfully hard cock. Then he pulled Sherlock back by the hips, extracting him from his brother’s reddened and swollen hole.

They both whined slightly at the loss of contact, but John shushed and soothed them. Sherlock allowed himself to be moved back until his feet were on the floor. Mycroft watched, riveted, as John bent his brother over. Sherlock placed hands either side of Mycroft, so he loomed over him.

“Spread ‘em”, John said to Mycroft, who obligingly moved his legs further apart . John fumbled beneath him, his hand going through Sherlock’s legs to reach Mycroft’s wet, sticky arse. With two fingers, he gathered as much of Sherlock’s spunk as he could, and rubbed it in between his younger lover’s spread thighs.

“You, close your legs,” he urged Sherlock, who readily obeyed him.

Then he stepped forward and pushed himself in between Sherlock’s thighs, slick with his recent release, mingled with his brother’s, and with John’s residual pre-come. John humped and slid back and forth, his cock bumping up against the back of Sherlock’s balls slightly as he used him. Images of utility room bunk-ups, memories of Greg’s lupine growling in his ear, visions of Mycroft promiscuously spreading himself, and of Sherlock victoriously fucking him flooded his mind, until he came with a choked cry and a contorted expression of utter bliss.

Mycroft beamed up at him. Sherlock giggled childishly as he felt warm wetness flow down his legs.

“John!” he exclaimed, pretending to be shocked.

“John, really!” smirked Mycroft, in a transport of delight.

“Sorry,” said John, very insincerely. “Couldn’t help it. You two. Jesus Christ on a tricycle.” He grinned saucily and wiped himself off on Sherlock’s bum, chuckling at the outraged “Oi!”

He collapsed onto the bed next to Mycroft, and Sherlock flopped heavily between them, winding them both and laughing as they fell upon him, tickling and smacking.

"Errors at Crime Scenes in the Inner London Area, my arse...," scoffed John, shaking his head in affectionate exasperation. Sherlock giggled uncontrollably, and Mycroft snorted in spite of his resolve not to.

They basked in their afterglow and stroked each other affectionately as they drifted into a contented half-sleep, unbothered by the immediate need to clean themselves up.

Sherlock flipped over to cuddle up to Mycroft, and John spooned against his back, murmuring comfortably. The brothers nuzzled each other like lion cubs. Once they settled back to themselves and fell into their more habitual relationship, there always had to be a reaffirmation of roles; a formal restatement of their natural bond.

"Call me my baby name again," whispered Sherlock, coyly and confidentially, out of John’s earshot - these words always kept private between them.

Mycroft turned and bestowed an enchanted smile upon him, stroking his hair away from his face. "Lockie. Oh, my sweet Lock. Our little menace to society."

Sherlock held onto him possessively. "Mmm. Mycie. Yummy,” he said, patting at his chest. “Honeymoon Suite,” he giggled happily to himself.

Mycroft petted his brother’s smooth, high cheekbone and snorted with amused self-awareness.

John smiled to himself as he pretended to snooze. _Holmeses. Ridiculous._

After a brief power-nap, Mycroft roused himself and looked at the bedside clock. 5pm.

“Hm. I think we shall have a little rest period and freshen ourselves up here, John, for the next half hour?”

John raised a hand and flapped it in confirmation, without opening his eyes.

“Not you, Lock,” said Mycroft. “You’ve got work to do, remember?”

Sherlock groaned and stretched as he sat up.

“Oh, yes, so I have. You know, ordinarily I’d be pissed off, but I’m looking forward to this bit.” He yawned extravagantly and wiggled his way from the middle of them

“As are we all, dear. Now get along to the shower with you. Our John’s dead to the world, look. Needs to recover his strength before his date with Gregory at six.”

“Company only. No letting himself be dragged off to cupboards or anything, or it’ll spoil everything,” warned Sherlock.

“Darling, I don’t think even our John could manage it again so soon.”

“He bloody could. Is my stuff here?”

“In the wardrobe. This shall be our base until the mission is completed.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Professor.”

“Oh, no. Not Professor anymore. Phase Two, brother,” corrected Sherlock.

“Indeed. Did you come up with a name?”

“No need, is there? No-one’s going to catch me. Not this bunch of cretins,” came the contemptuous reply.

“Well, _someone_ is…,” said Mycroft, smirking filthily.

“With any luck, brother. With any luck.” Sherlock winked and headed off to the bathroom.

John snored slightly, and Mycroft Holmes lay back, his brain clicking into planning mode once more. Sex was all well and good - well, it was better than that, it was fucking fantastic - but one had to put the work in if one wanted things to run seamlessly. He sometimes wondered whether he didn’t enjoy the organisation almost more than all the rest of it. But then he remembered that, consummate planner though he may be, he was also a red-blooded man of action. He had long held to the Wildean epigram that moderation was a fatal thing, and that nothing succeeds like excess. What was the point of going to great lengths if not in the service of brazen depravity between lovers? Or, perhaps more accurately, what was the point of being brazenly depraved if one did not go to great lengths to service one's lovers? He was a romantic at heart, after all.

His thoughts turned back to their beloved Gregory, wondering how he'd fared in the last few hours at the world's most tedious gathering of law enforcement professionals. He turned over and John stirred, eyes fluttering open sleepily. He leaned in to kiss him, a knowing half-smile on his lips. Then he glanced across the room as Sherlock emerged glistening from the shower in a haze of steam, a small white towel wrapped round his waist. His brother went to the wardrobe, extracted a suitcase, and opened it. 

Oh, yes. Gregory was going to have a fine time in the next 36 hours. They all were. 


	4. The Barman and the Burglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit awry at the Hotel Excelsior. Greg catches up with the Sergeant, and receives a couple of entirely expected nocturnal visitors. And this is still only the first night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of raunchy ahead. Mystrade and Sherstrade, with a dash of companionable Johnstrade. They will all play together in the next chapter, with John making a surging comeback - and the full scale of the Holmes boys' inside job will be revealed. x

It was 6.30pm, and the hotel bar was full of extremely bored coppers recently let off the leash. It was boozy, it was raucous, it was sweaty. It was exactly the kind of environment that repelled Holmeses, and thus none were present.

Every table was taken, so Greg sat up at the bar with his well-earned pint of I.P.A., chatting happily to that nice Sergeant he met at lunchtime. They seemed to be hitting it off, looking for all the world as though they were discussing the finer points of arrest procedures and monitoring forms.

After a slightly nervous wait, Tom Baker (for it was he) had found Lestrade amongst the crowd before anyone else had a chance to impose upon the eye-catching murder squad officer from London. More than a few eager members of the Old Bill, of all genders - all looking for a conference one-nighter - had clocked the dishy D.I., who was apparently flying solo. He remained oblivious as they hovered around him, summoning the courage to start up a conversation, eyes scanning his hands for a wedding ring. His date arrived just in the nick of time to stop someone embarrassing themselves.

After some initial small talk, Greg got to the point. “So, erm… Have a nice afternoon, did you, mate?” he asked his new friend, fixing him with a curious gaze.

“Not bad, actually. After that lecture...,” chuckled John, into his pint of Heineken.

“Oh, God, J- Tom, the fucking lecture!”

“I know!”

“Thought I was gonna have a stroke.”

“You wish. I got one…,” giggled John, unable to help himself. Greg snorted into his beer.

“Stop it! Bloody hell. Did you see an advance copy of that travesty by any chance?”

“I didn’t, no. News to me. Reprisals will be had,” said John, with a dark glint in his eye.

“Ah. None had already, then?”

“Not in the way you’d prefer, Inspector. The Professor was lavished with praise and rewarded pretty spectacularly. It’s done absolutely nothing to tame his ego, let me tell you.”

Greg shook his head, disapprovingly. “Right-o. I’ll bear that in mind. Spoiled little sod.”

“Take it up with the management, mate. Nothing to do with me,” smirked John. “You missed a bloody treat… He, er, came out on top, shall we say? Got some very good room service,” he said, under his breath.

“Oh, for fuck’s… Don’t tell me that! Where might, erm… I mean, are we going to have company tonight or what?” said Greg, in a low voice.

“Not here. Can’t say too much, obviously.”

“Come on, Sarge, whose side are you on anyway?”

“Mine! I know better than to spoil a Plan.”

“You’re all insane, you do realise that, don’t you? You should all be in a padded cell.”

“Yeah, that ship’s sailed, mate,” grinned John.

“So, erm… Where is your room, then? Where can I find you, _Tom_?”

“More than my life’s worth to tell you, Inspector.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Nope. Strict instructions. Not one to disobey orders, me.”

“Unless it suits you.”

“Obviously. I will tell you that the Concierge has arranged a big posh penthouse at St. David's for Friday night.”

“Where’s that?”

John grinned and leaned in, keeping his voice quiet. “On the waterfront. The only five-star hotel in Cardiff. Can't expect Myc to slum it round here, can you, the prissy little darling?”

Greg waggled his eyebrows flirtatiously as he sipped his pint.

“Fine. But tonight, and tomorrow…?”

“Never you mind about that. You just stay here and get to know me.”

“Hang on. You’re the bloody diversion, aren’t you?”

“No idea what you’re on about. Another round?”

“Yeah, go on. I assume I’ll need it.”

“Probably fair.”

“Barman, two more of those please,” said John, extremely casually to a tall, blond bartender wearing the hotel’s standard black and white uniform, who had slipped in behind them a few minutes ago.

“Certainly, sir,” said the deep baritone, almost politely. The sensuous voice half-heartedly attempted a less posh accent, but it wasn’t really trying.

Greg did a quick triple take, and put his head in his hands, defeated.

The wig was convincing. Seamless. Straw blond, almost 1960s-style, with a long fringe swept over the forehead, neat sideburns, and just long enough to flick out a little at the back. The man’s eyebrows were pale and sandy, which coupled with the pale skin, the staggering bone-structure, and lively blue eyes, gave the entirely erroneous impression of Scandinavian heritage.

Greg’s mouth obviously wanted to say something, as it was opening and closing repeatedly. However, it seemed not to be able to articulate any words at all. Partly it was lust, and partly shock – mostly it was the totally incongruous sight of Sherlock Holmes pulling pints.

“You can have these on the house, _sirs_ ,” said the barman, who really couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice on that final honourific.

“Cheers, mate. Haven’t got any change anyway,” said John, shrugging.

“Those drinks can come out of your…wages,” said Greg to the barman, warningly.

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, waving an imperious hand, “the mark up on alcohol in hotels is more of a crime than giving it away. It’s inflated by 400%! Four hundred!”

“Bloody racket!” said John, outraged.

“You can basically nick anything here without denting their profits,” continued the completely anonymous blond man, carelessly. “Towels, trouser presses, kitchen utensils, light fittings…”

“Seriously, you’re in so much trouble…,” said Greg, through gritted teeth.

The lanky barman snorted dismissively, enjoying the way other people at the bar seemed to be waving tenners at him and trying to catch his eye. He enjoyed even more resolutely ignoring them. In fact, his attention was inversely proportionate to how much they wanted it.

“Rubbish conference, isn’t it?” he said, rudely, leaning his elbows on the bar without a care in the world. “Why would anyone want to come here and leave their loving families and boyfriends for stupid _work?_ ” It was almost as if the man were trying to make a point.

Greg tutted, but couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. “Yeah, as it happens, it wasn’t the best idea. But it’s had its moments,” he said. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He regarded Sherlock with a heated look. The detective-in-disguise had the grace to blush and look secretly pleased.

John smiled widely as he sipped his pint. “Might be even more chuffed by the time it’s finished…”

The pretty barman guffawed, then scowled and waved away a slightly tipsy woman trying to order two gins and tonic.

“No, madam, we’ve run out of gin. And tonic. And ice, and lemon, and glasses. And _patience_ ,” he said, with great certainty. The woman’s eyebrows raised in outrage and she moved away to the other end of the bar, where a sensible person was serving.

John shot him a warning look.

The blond huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking less like a professional drinks server now and more like a sulky brat in need of a bloody good hiding, thought Greg.

“Not staying anyway. Just wanted to drop by. Never met a Detective Inspector before,” he said, lasciviously in Greg’s direction. “Being just a humble agency bar-type person on a zero hours contract.”

“Poor lad. Can’t tempt you for a nightcap later?” said Greg, shooting him an enticing glare.

“The boss will have my guts for garters. Oh, shit, and here she is,” he said, impertinently, jumping like he’d been caught smoking behind the bike sheds.

A black-suited Mycroft Holmes, his face only slightly like thunder, approached the bar.

He pointed at the barman and clicked his fingers. “You. You’re not on shift here tonight. Off you go. Leave the nice policemen to their pleasant drink,” he said, his jaw clenched with irritation.

The barman sniggered and helped himself to a neat vodka from the optic. He downed it in one, wiped his mouth, and smashed the glass onto the floor. More than a few people in the bar cheered, in the traditional British way. They didn’t know why breaking things was a cause for celebration. Culturally-speaking, it just was.

“Whoops. _Nasdrovia_ ,” he toasted, pleasantly.

“You’re _not_ being Russian, and that isn’t even the correct use of the word!” hissed Mycroft, trying to keep his voice down.

“ _Prost! Skål!_   _Iechyd da,”_ he continued in a variety of European accents, ending with the native Welsh.

Greg bit his finger to stop himself laughing. John had long since giving up trying.

The barman grinned, eyes sparkling. “Bottoms up, gents. Must dash,” he chirped, and slinked past the fuming Concierge, who only just restrained himself from smacking his arse on the way out.

The poor man shook his head in disapprobation. “I apologise for that, gentlemen. Can’t get the staff.”

Greg laughed out loud. Even Mycroft’s best laid plans were destined to be sabotaged from within.

“Looks like Trouble, that one, Mr... Oh, shit, who are you again?”

“Name badge, sir. Always check the name badge,” he said, indicating it with an elegant finger.

“Hartnell, that’s it. I’m sure you’ve got it all well in hand, eh?”

“Some recruits are utterly untrainable,” said the Concierge with exasperation.

“Well, you hired him, didn’t you?” said Greg, gloating.

“Don’t be too hard on the man, Greg. He’s had quite a _stressful_ afternoon, by the looks of him,” smirked John with brazen cheek.

The Concierge smoothed his hair down and straightened his collar. His no-doubt witty reply was cut off as one of the legitimate bartenders started sweeping up the broken glass. “Thank you, Mark. I’ll ask Gina to come and help you as it’s so busy tonight,” he said, authoritatively, smiling stiffly.

Greg leaned into John’s ear and asked in an awed whisper, “Is he running the entire staff rota, or what?!”

John made a choking noise into his drink.

Mycroft glared at them balefully, then turned on his heel and made a swift, icy exit.

“Off for a disciplinary meeting, d’you reckon?” asked Greg, trying not to seem too excited about the idea.

“Nope. No time for that now. Work to be done,” said John, knowingly. “But never mind that. Let’s have a catch up, you and me. Been a while since I’ve had a quiet little drink with y…a decent bloke.”

“Yeah. Same here, actually. What shall we talk about?” said Greg, smiling broadly into John’s sweetly expectant face.

“I think footie might be the safest territory, don’t you?”

“Not for your lot at the moment. Is your manager going to spend any money in the transfer window or what?”

And they were off for the next four hours, drinking, talking about sport and the news; the increase in the Congestion Charge; how politicians were so useless you couldn’t even bring yourself to waste time despising them anymore; how annoying it is when the council changes bin day; the state of potholes in residential areas; how much protein you should eat after a workout, and where they might fancy going on holiday this year. All in all, a good, wholesome chat for two men who’d recently met at a conference somewhere in the United Kingdom.

By the end of the evening, each man was four pints down, which was plenty, given that they both had to get up early, though for very different reasons. John was definitely on his way to pissed, but his body language didn’t give much away, apart from a slightly off-kilter lean. They munched some peanuts and crisps to soak it up a bit.

Around 10pm, John escorted Greg back to the foyer. Greg seemed fine, only mildly slacker than usual, but not too worse for wear. No point having a painful hangover in the morning when he’d be sitting through another painful day of tedious guff and drivelling bollocks.

Their slightly drunken haze was punctured by what seemed to be a bit of a kerfuffle at the reception desk. Thirty or so people, mostly conference guests, were gathered, remonstrating with the night staff.

“My bag has gone missing, I’m telling you,” said a red-faced man in a raised voice. “I haven’t got any of my clothes or anything. I put my stuff in the room earlier, and now it’s all just gone!”

“What kind of security do they have here?” said an equally red-faced woman to anyone who’d listen.

All sorts of complaints were being thrown at the bemused desk staff, who did their best to nod and seem sympathetic, though none had a clue what to do about it. Unsurprisingly, the Concierge was nowhere to be found, and the night manager was mysteriously indisposed, having earlier been instructed to go on a pointless goose chase errand by someone claiming, very persuasively, to be the owner of the hotel.

Through the cacophony of the disgruntled rabble, Greg picked out some key phrases.

“Someone else’s suitcase is in my wardrobe. Don’t know how it got there, but mine’s gone!”

“Same here!”

“Are you sure you’re in the right room, madam?”

“Of course I am! The key works and everything!”

“Mine doesn’t, I’m locked out, and so are the couple next door!”

“Sorry, excuse me, do you sell toothbrushes here? We thought we’d packed them, but they’re not here, and it’s too late to go out now.”

“Toothbrushes? Ours are missing as well.”

“So is mine!”

Greg was not so full of ale that he couldn’t smell a rat. Well, two rats. A very lanky, cocky rat with a variety of disguises at his disposal and too much time on his hands; and a tall, overly-dignified, control-freak rat in need of taking down a peg or two - both currently with very un-smacked backsides.

A cross woman in her 50s raised her voice hysterically. “Someone should be told. You can’t have random suitcases all over the hotel – there might be a bomb for all we know!”

“Madam, please, don’t say bomb in the foyer! The place is crawling with police officers, we don’t want them shutting us down.”

“I know, I’m a Chief Superintendent! Sort it out or there’ll be a shitload of trouble! Can’t you check the CCTV?”

Greg felt sorry for the woman’s naïve faith in CCTV footage, which, he knew, would be singularly unhelpful to her plight.

Beside him, John was biting on his lower lip in merriment, tears threatening to stream down his face at any moment.

“I’m actually going to have to kill you all,” said Greg, very dangerously calmly indeed.

“Night, Lestrade. Sleep well,” said John in a choked voice, turning away before he totally lost it. Time for bed. He’d been in a state of high-alert since 6am, sat through an appalling lecture, shot his load twice, and drunk four pints on no dinner. He was done in. Winking back at the adorably livid D.I., he scurried off up the stairs, leaving Greg slightly baffled in his wake. He’d expected John to come up to bed with him, at least, but evidently he was going to be left wanting.

He shook his head in frustration and approached the lift, but found himself thwarted by a wall of Out of Order signs.

A young porter, surely not more than 20, was loitering nearby and noticed his consternation. “Lifts are out, I’m afraid, sir. All of them. And they absolutely reek,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust and wafting his hand in front of his nose.

Greg cocked his head in curiosity. “Oh, yeah? What of?”

“Fish,” said the porter.

“Fish?!”

Greg sniffed in the general vicinity of the lifts and recoiled. Yep. Fish. Mackerel, at a guess. Very old, warm mackerel.

“Lovely. Stairs, then.”

“’Fraid so. Night, sir.”

“Yeah, g’night. Not having much luck in here tonight, are they?” he said, indicating the harassed lobby staff.

“No, it’s a nightmare. Loads of people have the wrong luggage in their room. Nothing to do with me.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t. Won’t get in trouble, will you?” he asked, concerned.

“Me? Nah. Just someone playing silly buggers, I reckon. Might want to check your room. Make sure you’ve got everything you came with,” said the lad.

Greg couldn’t quite tell if he was being flirted with. Funny how you stopped being able to read that in strangers when you had three randy idiots flirting with you all the ruddy time.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. Got everything I need,” he said, truthfully. He waved goodnight affably, and dragged himself to Room 69, which he now of course realised hadn’t been accidentally allocated to him.

It was…exciting, this little game of cat and mouse. Well, cats and mouse. But now he was alone, abandoned to his own devices once more, he felt bereft of company to share the excitement with. He knew his lads were working hard to amuse him, and themselves, but in his sentimental, hungry four-pint state, he wished they were enjoying it with him more directly. His quick standing-up fuck with John had been fantastic, but it wasn’t…enough. He moped up to his room, feeling a bit sorry for himself somehow.

He half expected at least one of them to be in his room when he opened the door – tied naked to the headboard, or in the bath - but it was empty. He sighed and sat on the bed. The room span a bit. _Whoops. Probably a bit pissed, actually. Not enough food. Bit horny, but should I knock one out now or save it…? Surely there’s something to save it for. Isn’t there?_

He shook himself in a futile attempt to sober up. He shoved his clothes off until he was only in his pants, then brushed his teeth, drank some water, and went to bed with the telly on low in the background; some late night crap action film.

He was just dozing off when he heard a quiet knock on the door. He checked the clock. Only 10.45pm. He slid out of bed, heart thumping with anticipation. _Please, please…,_ he wished fervently.

He opened the door and… No-one was there. He groaned in disappointment. Then he saw a tray of food outside on the floor – a freshly-made cheese and mushroom omelette, chips and a salad, with a bottle of ketchup on the side, and a carton of apple juice too. _Oh, Lord love you, Mycie Holmes._ He took it up and set it down on the desk, sitting down to eat it gratefully, still in just his underwear.

Halfway through his late dinner, he noticed a folded piece of hotel letterhead paper poking out from under the plate. Feeling in a far better mood now he had some fuel on board, he opened it, grinning.

‘They seek him here, they seek him there…’ it read, in Sherlock’s best curly handwriting.

_Oh, blimey. I’m being taunted by cryptic notes now. Makes a change from text messages._

He cast it aside, finished his meal, and placed the tray back outside again for collection. He waited to see if a flash of blond or a shock of auburn would emerge from the corridor, but none did.

He went back to bed feeling a lot more human and less blurry round the edges, then turned off the telly and lay in blackness idly playing with himself, wondering what the hell was going on. After 20 minutes or so had passed, there was another, firmer knock on the door. He bolted out of bed and flung it open.

The Concierge stood there, cool as a very cool cucumber. The tall, impeccably elegant man gave him a brief up-and-down, taking in the sight of Gregory Lestrade in his customary tight black undershorts, peaked up rather mouth-wateringly at the front; the muscular, furry chest, bare and heaving as though from some recent exertion. Greg was thrilled to see the little microexpression of pure lust which passed across the Concierge's otherwise haughty, composed features.

The man raised a suggestive eyebrow. “I do hope I haven’t disturbed you, Detective Inspector. I wonder if I might have a private word?”

“I was in bed,” protested Greg, feebly, playing the game.

“Yes, of course, sir. I shan’t take long. May I?” Mycroft stepped into the room as though he owned it, which was no different to how he stepped into any other room in any other building in the country.

The door clunked safely shut behind him.

“What’s all this about, Mr…oh bugger, whatever-it-is?”

“Yes, perhaps don’t worry about names for the moment, Mr Lestrade. I have to tell you something that may shock you,” said the Concierge, conspiratorially

“Oh, aye? Been a while since something did that.”

“I can imagine. It seems… Well, this is rather awkward… I believe I did raise the possibility of there being miscreants on the loose?” said the man, seemingly worried.

“You did. Don’t tell me – they haven’t been caught yet?”

“No, indeed, they have not. And it seems there have been a spate of thefts in the hotel. Most unfortunate. Right under the noses of all these police officers.”

“You do surprise me. That’s one in the eye for us all, innit? Whoever it is must be having a bloody good time.”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Far be it from me to guess what goes through the minds of the criminal element.”

Greg snorted.

“I’m sure order will be restored eventually, sir. I just wanted to reassure you that everything is under control and the culprit or culprits unknown will be brought to swift justice very soon.”

“Right. Is it safe to assume things might get worse before they get better?”

“Isn’t it always, sir?” quipped the Concierge, raising an ironic brow.

“Fair point. Any descriptions to go on?”

“We believe them to be in disguise.”

“Right, so you’ll be telling your staff to look out for someone in disguise, will you? Very clever. Ever fancied a career in detection?” said Greg, sarcastically, trying to prod a reaction out of Mycroft’s insouciant persona.

“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Sounds lonely. I’m more of a people person,” he deadpanned.

Greg laughed, caught unawares by Mycroftian humour, as he often was.

“You daft bugger,” said Greg, affectionately, swiping at his arm.

Mycroft coughed modestly and regrouped.

“Actually, sir, the reason I’m here… I wanted to offer my sincere apologies if our failure to catch this villainous individual or gang has caused you any inconvenience at all, and to offer any restitution you may require,” he said, meaningfully.

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s… Now you come to mention it. I am a bit displeased. As a customer. Bit pissed off, actually,” said Greg, frowning severely.

“Oh dear, sir.”

Greg stepped towards him, radiating an authority that was unusual for a man in just his pants. He felt clear-headed now, the residual booziness dissipating in the wake of the need to assert himself.

"Haven't really done your job very well, have you?” he said, shaking his head in disappointment, fixing the other man with a dark glare. “You're supposed to be overseeing the guests’ comfort and all. But you’ve let some little rascal, whoever he is, run riot all over the place."

They were standing mere millimetres apart now. The Concierge seemed unrepentant. "Hardly our fault, sir. One would think that a hotel full of rozzers would be able to take care of one solitary thief. And yet..."

"Say that again?" said Greg with menace. The other man shrugged, apparently not sensing danger.

"Well, far be it from me to censor uncomfortable facts, but it would seem the force isn’t what it used to be. Shouldn’t you be held responsible for catching this fiend? You're the law, after all. I'm just a Concierge."

"You're a little tart,” accused Greg.

Mycroft held up a hand defensively. "Sir, really, I protest!"

"Do you?"

The man seemed to consider this for a split-second. "Mostly, yes."

"Think you've done a very slapdash job. Think I want compensation,” said Greg, provocatively. He stepped in until their bodies touched, and rubbed his hard-on against the man’s thigh.

"I can't give you a refund, I'm afraid, sir," said the Concierge, in a hoarse, breathy voice.

"I'll have to complain to the manager, then."

"Oh. No, I'd ask that you didn't do that. I, er...," he said, playing flustered as his cock was grabbed and stroked through his trousers.

"S'all right. Don't want to get you fired, do we?" said Greg, oh-so-kindly, stroking him firmly to stiffness. "Hmm. Think we can deal with it ourselves,  _William.”_ Greg pushed the jacket from the man’s shoulders and gestured for him to strip.

"What can I do for you, sir?" said Mycroft, hastily taking off his clothes for the second time that day.

"Well, for a start, I wonder if there might be anything useful in that little black case you brought up here earlier.”

“I shall ascertain.”

A now-naked Mycroft went to the wardrobe, bending over for slightly too long as he searched for it. Greg gulped with anticipation. Mycroft handed the case over to him, and Greg flipped it open.

“Ooh, lovely,” he said, approvingly, looking at the contents.

He pulled out an item. An item which Mycroft Holmes always refused to name, even in his head, but which Greg Lestrade was perfectly happy to call a buttplug; of small-to-medium girth, designed to stretch but not overfill, and which could be worn for an extended amount of time without discomfort. Perfect.

Mycroft swooned a little.

“Oh, sir, what are you going to do to me?”

“Bend over the bed,” ordered Greg, ignoring him. He was obeyed.

Mycroft licked his suddenly dry lips, dropped his head and leaned on his hands, spreading his legs.

Greg took a tube of KY from the little case of quality sex aids, squeezed out some slick to lubricate the plug, and then pooled some more into his cupped hand. He stood behind his lover, and parted his cheeks gently with slippery fingers. Mycroft blushed, and his hips stuttered forwards helplessly as his already plump cock filled further out.

Greg made a disapproving sound. “Mm. You’ve had it up the bum already today, haven’t you? I can tell. You’re a bit looser than I’d expect. Like I said - a little tart.”

“Yes, sir. I, er, met a Professor from the Home Office and he seduced me,” husked Mycroft, matter-of-factly, trying and failing to sound ashamed as Greg examined his dilated hole.

“Naughty boy. Think we’d better seal you up so no-one else can tempt you, hadn’t we? Will that stop you being such a wanton harlot, spreading your arse for anyone that asks?”

“Oh, sir…,” he groaned, as he felt the tip of Gregory’s finger breaching his tender opening. His face and neck tingled with heat, and he exhaled shakily as the whole of the thick finger slid all the way into him. He braced himself more firmly as it was joined by a second, and both wiggled irresistibly inside him. They were removed all too soon. Greg placed the pointed tip of the silicone plug to his wet hole, pushing it slowly past the first ring of the intimate muscle, as it welcomed in the widest part of the device. He waited for his lover to adjust to the intrusion, then pushed deeper until the plug popped past the second sphincter. Mycroft groaned low in his throat and pushed his arse further towards the handsome D.I.'s insistent hand.

Greg bit his lip in intense concentration, angling the toy upwards as Mycroft bore down upon it, until it was fully seated inside him. Mycroft whimpered as the tip of it kissed his nerve-centre, and he inhaled sharply, jerking as sparks flew from his arse to his brain.

Greg gave Mycroft a shove so that he fell onto his front, with the base of the plug invitingly displayed between his pale, perky cheeks.

“Make me come, make me come...,” moaned the Concierge, frotting his cock on the bed. He really had done a disgraceful amount of begging today, he reflected.

“Don’t think so, actually.”

“No?!” said Mycroft, turning his head back sharply, looking pleadingly up at his tormentor.

“No. I know you’re running the show here, doll, and it’s very sweet,” said Greg, with an evil grin, entirely as one lover to another. “But when I get you home, Mycie Holmes, you can forget it. So get used to not getting what you want, yeah?”

“But nobody touched it earlier – including myself. And John’s ejaculated twice!” he complained, scowling petulantly.

“That’s your own silly fault, innit, if you insist on mindgasming. Showing off for John and your baby brother,” he tutted, tolerantly. “Turn over,” he commanded, and moved to kneel over the increasingly desperate, prone fake-Concierge.

Mycroft whined plaintively as he saw what Greg held in his hand. “Oh, Gregory!”

“Ssh, silly Mycie. Just have to learn to control yourself, won’t you?” he soothed, wickedly, and slipped the cock ring over his lover’s drawn-up balls, delighting in the heavy, cool feel of them in his palm. Mycroft closed his eyes and screwed up his face as he adjusted to the restriction.

“Now,” continued Greg, clinically, “no coming for you ‘til I let ya. Keep this on, and keep that thing inside for me tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, Gregory. I mean, sir. I am at your service, as ever. May I…remove them to sleep?” he asked, shyly.

“Course you can, doll. Not safe to sleep in a cock ring. Just want you leaving here tonight with a little reminder of me, that’s all. Put it back on in the morning. Actually…keep the plug in, if you want. But take it out if you need to, or if it gets too uncomfortable, right? No self-challenging.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Ooh, you’re lovely, you.”

“Mmm, yes, sir,” Mycroft mumbled, contentedly, as he was kissed and petted, adoring submitting so thoroughly to his beloved Gregory, now resplendent with dominance.

Greg growled and shifted further up his lover’s body to straddle his broad chest, kneeling up with a straight back. He gazed fiercely down at a pink-faced, sweaty Mycroft; so delectable with his bright grey eyes and his furrowed, high brow. He was biting down on his thin lips, attempting to control his desire while his arse was perpetually stretched and his cock permanently gripped. Greg took his own swollen, aching cock in hand and started pumping it with hard, no-nonsense strokes over his gasping victim.

“Oh, Gregory…,” exhaled Mycroft, blissfully. Then he seemed to remember something. “Oh, you might want to save yourself…”

“Nah,” said Greg, carelessly as he panted and wanked with vigour. “I can handle anything you little boys throw at me. Mm... Think I could go again any time, four pints or not.” He grinned, lecherously, then closed his eyes as his need rose higher and higher, his climax building at the base of his spine. He threw his head back as he came with a grunt all over Mycroft’s face, covering him from hairline to chin in powerful spurts of hot semen.

Mycroft opened his mouth to catch what he could, licking his lips with debauched glee. 

Greg flopped on top of him, causing them both to grunt. He kissed Mycroft’s sticky lips and hummed in satisfaction, licking himself up from his lover's skin.

“Right, you. Clean yourself up, and get out. I need my beauty sleep,” he smirked.

Mycroft chuckled. “Hardly, dear,” he said, drily, and kissed him ardently again to share Greg's taste between their mouths. He smiled in repletion, his flushed, patrician face still shiny and sticky with come.

Greg leered and smacked at his bum as he retreated to the bathroom to make himself presentable again. Mycroft yelped, wincing slightly as the toys up his arse and round the stem of his cock made their presence felt.

Greg got into bed after wiping himself down with bedside tissues, and relaxed into the mattress. He dozed off happily, barely feeling it when Mycroft ran a gentle hand through his spiked hair. He was snoring softly by the time the man in black slinked silently from the room.

*****

At 3am, Greg was woken from a very erotic dream by something he couldn’t identify at first. The dream was instantly forgotten upon waking, but he vaguely thought it had something to do with school uniforms. That would make sense, giving his raging nocturnal hard-on. His earlier Mycroft-wank had taken the edge off, certainly. But he was keyed up and ready to go at anytime - generally speaking, but especially for the next few days. 

In his sleep-stupid state, he almost drifted back off, but an untoward clinking noise from the bathroom caught his ear. He jolted inwardly, becoming fully awake as his well-trained ‘danger’ reflexes kicked in.  He prepared for a split-second to defend himself against an intruder. Then he remembered who he was, where he was, and why there was likely to be an intruder in his bathroom in the first place.

He desperately wanted to shout, “Sherlock, get out here, you little git!”, but decided to be generous and let the boy have his fun. “Who’s there?!” he called, letting a bit of anxiety into his voice for good measure.

"Good evening, Inspector," drawled a cool baritone voice, smooth and expensive as silk. The bathroom door opened to reveal the expected visitor. The blond hair was still in place, and he was dressed in all black – a tight, long-sleeved t-shirt with a high neck, a pair of tight slacks and a pair of black leather gloves. He looked like a Teutonic Bond villain. Greg groaned. Would these torments never end?

He blinked blearily and propped himself up on his elbows. The sheet fell to his waist. Sherlock was gratified to see that even in hotel accommodation, Greg refused to wear anything but his pants in bed. _Soon get those off._

“’Ello, blondy,” said Greg, his tone flirtatious and gruff.

“Gentlemen prefer blonds, I’m told,” said the lithe and lissom creature posing sensually in the doorway.

“Nah. Gentlemen prefer whatever they can get, mate,” Greg winked, with a mucky laugh.

Sherlock snorted in spite of himself.

"Our pesky little thief, is it?" drawled Greg, summoning his performance skills to the fore again.

"No,” scoffed the man, insulted to his core. He stepped into the room, posturing and gesticulating with feline movements. “I'm a gentleman cat burglar, thank you very much!”

“I outfox even the foxiest investigators of the Yard,” husked the rangy scoundrel, with wild eyes and a mad grin, as he gazed down intently at the man in the bed. “I glide through the night with soundless tread. I duck and I dive with lightning-swift reflexes, confounding the finest minds of Her Majesty's lawkeeping forces - though that isn't saying much. I shimmy up drainpipes and jimmy open windows, and nick toothbrushes without breaking a sweat! I swap everyone's luggage around into different rooms, and fill lift shafts with rotten mackerel. And I do a few other things I shan’t confess to yet... I am the shadow upon the wall. The elusive masked menace of Cardiff! I’ve been at it for hours!” he cried, reaching his crescendo.

He paced around the bed with a debonair strut, turning and twirling as he spoke with exaggerated theatricality, as though to a large conference hall of admirers.

“They seek him here, they seek him there, those morons seek him everywhere! Is he in heaven or is he in hell? - no, he's here, about to show a rather dishy detective the meaning of his room number. Fancy a double blowie, Mister?" he smirked, coming to rest at the foot of the bed with hands on hips; all jaunty dissolution and wonderfully slappable arrogance.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock...," groaned Greg, throwing his head back onto the pillow and feeling his cock throbbing painfully. He was doomed.

"Hm. Don’t know who that is, but he sounds sexy. No matter. Hush, dear Inspector, and lie back while I go about my work. Then tomorrow, you may try to catch me, and deal with me how you wish. But I don't fancy your chances, Lestrade."

Sherlock licked his lips and climbed upon the bed, looming over Greg on all fours. He pulled the sheets off him, and reached out with a leather-clad hand to pull at his lover's hardness with a firm grip. Greg simply went giddy at the feel of cool, smooth leather on his hot, needy prick.

Sherlock smirked and started stripping off his all-black ensemble, saving the gloves for last. He pulled them off like a teasing burlesque dancer - finger by finger, inch by inch, using his teeth.

"Ooh... When I get hold of you next...," warned Greg, weakly, as Sherlock turned himself round and moved his bare, peachy bottom back to straddle himself over Greg’s face. Greg shifted himself down the bed to make the position work, until they connected in the perfect formation. His hearing went a bit muffled as his ears were clamped between soft, strong thighs. He felt Sherlock's hot breath on his balls.

"Mm? Going to make me suffer for my taunting tongue, are you?" said Sherlock, lowering his face to Greg’s pulsing cock, upside down. His pert arse winked open above Greg's head as he stretched into a catlike bend.

"You betcha," mumbled Greg, mouthing at the downy sack hanging above his face, licking at the tangy skin between them and Sherlock’s long, smooth prick. He inhaled the sweet, addictive musk of his most unpredictable, gloriously impulsive lover, and shuddered with sheer animal joy.  

"Rubbish,” continued Sherlock, licking at the head of Greg’s engorged, dripping cock, tasting the remnants of the earlier release that had ended up all over his brother’s face. “I'll walk away Scot free, see if I don't. I shall never get my comeuppance, never, I say!"

"Nuff talking now....," said Greg, pushing a finger insistently into the boy’s ripe little arsehole.

"Yeah, prob'ly," squealed the gentleman burglar, and set his mouth to better uses. 

They sucked and nibbled simultaneously in their beautifully obscene clinch - their tongues mimicking each other, suctioning each other’s pricks in sync, and caressing themselves towards mutual orgasm. Sherlock performed all of his best tricks. He pulled his head up slowly, lifting Greg’s cock with his mouth as high as he could without hurting him, then lowered himself down again, overriding his gag reflex until it sank deep into his throat. Greg moaned in a _bass profundo_ register and simply opened his own throat wider for Sherlock to fuck down into. It was always a bit tricky to get a good rhythm going in a 69, but somewhere in the middle of it they hit the right combination of pace, pressure and position.

Sherlock came first, emitting a quiet little wolf-cubby howl which Greg found too adorable for words. His own refractory period had been shorter, but it didn’t take long after that lovely noise - surrounded by his lover’s scent, mouth full of his liquid essence - for Greg to grunt and growl and come, gushing up into Sherlock’s willing throat.

Sherlock swallowed with a satisfied gulp and rolled off to the side, releasing Greg’s head from his crotch.

Greg groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. Utterly knackered. Utterly thrilled.

“I promise you,” he panted, “you naughty little fraud, when this is over, your arse is _mine.”_

Sherlock chuckled lightly and planted a kiss onto his stomach from upside down.

“Go back to sleep, dear. It’s nearly 4am. Breakfast’s at 8. Need your strength for the day ahead.”

Greg heard the fond grin in his voice and snorted delightedly.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Make sure you get some sleep too. Burglarising must be tiring work. That, and fucking your brother. Where are you all staying, again?” he murmured, then yawned.

He could hear Sherlock dressing himself and peeked out to catch the black trousers being pulled over his bare bottom.

“Can’t remember. Gentlemen burglars don’t need sleep like mere mortals - neither do brother-fuckers,” he said, saucily.

“Well, we can all catch up at the nice five-star hotel for the weekend, can’t we?” murmured Greg, turning to face him with drooping eyes as he gathered up his gloves.

Sherlock stamped his foot in an instant sulk. “Oh, who told you… John! Honestly! He wasn’t supposed to say anything! Bloody hell, Watson, loose lips sink ships, you know!” he muttered to himself, tutting with irritation.

Greg blew the blond a dopey kiss, which he acknowledged with a curt, mock-serious nod of the head. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a black burglar’s eye mask. The mysterious intruder donned it with a flourish, bowed courteously, and swept from the room, fleet of foot, and light of tread.

Greg fell back against the pillows, humming contentedly at what was turning out to be an absolutely cracking conference.

At some point during the remainder of the small hours, the D.I., the Sergeant, the Concierge and the Burglar/Barman/Professor were all asleep simultaneously, each with a broad sated smile on his handsome face; each looking forward to the morning.


	5. Matinee Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anything that could go wrong, goes wrong. The conference is cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances. No refunds.

Ordinarily, Greg Lestrade was not a morning person. Especially not after less than six hours of broken sleep. This morning, though, he was practically chipper. Three orgasms with three lovers in 24 hours will do that to a bloke.

He rose with enough time to shower, shave and dress, ready to go down to the breakfast buffet just before eight. When he opened the door, however, he realised this was unnecessary. Breakfast had come to him, held aloft on a tray by a smiley waiter in a white shirt, practical sleeves rolled up, and a snug-fitting black waistcoat and trousers.

"Brekkie, guv?" grinned John, looking offensively well-rested. Greg leaned on his hip and regarded him warmly.

"Oh, mornin’ Sunshine. Fancy seeing you here. Breakfast in bed, is it?" he said, ushering him in with an amused waggle of the eyebrows.

"Not in a sexy way, sadly. The management were very keen you got a healthy start to the day without having to slum it with the rabble."

"Given up on Sergeant Tom Baker, have you?"

"Not necessarily. Just fancied a change. Why should Prince Charming have all the fun?"

Greg checked what was on offer. "Aw, no fry-up?"

"Nope,” said John, firmly, placing the tray down on the desk. “Doctor's orders."

"Doctor, copper, waiter. Make your mind up, will you?"

John rolled his eyes. "I know what you had yesterday - grotty bacon butty, beer, and chips at 11pm."

"Bloody Nora, trying to put me on a diet now."

John wagged his finger like he was ticking off one of his patients. "Yeah, a healthy one suitable for a man rapidly approaching his fif...the prime of his life. So it's porridge with seeds, fruit salad, bit of toast and a boiled egg for you, no arguing."

Greg’s frustrated tut was offset by the smiling glint in his eyes. "You're no fun anymore, John Watson. Haven't even let me have any jam!"

"There wasn't any left. Made you a decent cuppa though."

"Ooh, a big mug, perfect. Those little cups they put in your room are like thimbles. Neither use nor ornament, as me old Ma used to say."

"I know. Come on, eat up. Big day ahead of you." 

"I dread to think. Glad you're joining me, love," he said, ruffling John's hair up like a hedgehog's. John fought him off and gave him a nudge towards the chair. Greg sat down at the desk, while John took the tray and ate from his lap on the bed.

"Didn't fancy the Full English yourself? I know you only pretend to be a health freak," teased Greg. "You love a bit of dirty fried bread as much as any right-thinking Englishman. Love a sausage too, don't ya?" 

John rolled his eyes, looking vaguely Holmesish. "As my darling Myc would say, don't be crude, Gregory. And, er, the buffet's off, actually."

"Off?” queried Greg, correctly sensing trouble.

John nodded definitively. "As in, totally fucked. Unfit for human consumption."

"Oh, Jesus, what now?"

"Something about laxatives in the scrambled eggs. And, erm, Viagra in the baked beans."

Greg’s hand smacked his forehead and he winced. "He didn't?!"

"Oh, but he did."

"But... He can't mess about with stuff like that! John, you can't sanction this, someone might actually get hurt!"

"Don't have a go at me, I know it's dodgy! It wasn't sanctioned sabotage, it was illicit improvisation. Well, illicitly planned interference. The Concierge was most pissed off about it," said John, recalling with glee just  _how_ pissed off.

Greg made a satisfied noise. "Serves him right. He started this fiasco. This is what happens when you give that lad licence to misbehave. Medical hazards!" His hands outreached in desperate appeal for understanding.

"Yeah, but he's all cute and that."

Greg shook his head in despair. "We have to learn to ignore it, John. Nobody's ill, are they?"

"Not seriously. The Cardiff Poisoner got into the kitchens at the crack of dawn. I didn’t know he had chefs whites, did you? But we caught him just in time. Only thirty or so are now glued to their bog seats for the next few hours, instead of hundreds. And as for the baked bean-eaters. Well, gives new meaning to the word 'early riser', don't it? No real harm done. Myc's shut the kitchens down. There's been a surprise health and safety inspection..."

"Thank God. Tell me our little Masterchef is back on the leash?" 

"Mostly, yeah. The man from Environmental Health put him over his knee in the staff room."

"He what?!"

"It was empty. I was guarding the door. But pretty sure you could hear bawling from down the corridor. Luckily at that time in the morning everyone's too busy to care."

"Good,” grumped Greg. “Hope he feels it 'til I catch up with him and give him something more to bawl about."

"That's the spirit, love."

"Hand over my porridge, Goldilocks, I'm starving." Greg began to chomp down his all-too-wholesome breakfast, and John followed suit.

"Speaking of Goldilocks... Enjoy yourselves last night, did you?" he asked, slyly, between bites.

"He made his little wolfie noise," said Greg, dreamily. 

John smirked knowingly, and they resumed eating in companionable silence, each glancing at the other and snorting occasionally into their huge mugs of strong tea. 

“You know…,” said John, after they’d finished, “It is customary to offer room service a tip.”

“Oh, it’s a _tip_ you’re after is it. Yeah, I’ve got a tip for you, mate. Come over here and I’ll show it to you.”

“Mm. Nice. Want to see mine?”

“Yeah. Wanna rub them together for a bit?”

“Yeah. Want me to tell you exactly how the nasty health inspector spanked that naughty little chef?”

“In great detail, John.”

***

At the same time as Greg and John enjoyed their convivial breakfast, two of the latest additions to the staff were going through their usual morning ritual of getting on each other’s wick. 

"Ooh, Mycie, let me  _see!"_

 _"_ No, go away, you little sex pest. Get to your next appointment."

"Give us a look, just a peek at it. Is it really tight? Have you got something shoved up your bum as well? You have, you're walking funny!"

"Paws off! You've seen it all before anyway, and if I know Gregory, you'll be seeing it all again later."

"Yeah, but just a little preview... Just for Lockie. Go on. Bet it's pretty."

"Stop that this instant and let me pass unmolested.”

“Spoilsport! Killjoy!”

“Groper!"

"Prude! Ow! That was unsporting!"

"Get back to your work, you frightful boy, or I'll take you back to the staff room.”

"Unnecessary!"

***

After the D.I. and the room service waiter had had a second shower and a bit of a post-orgasmic cuddle in front of the BBC Breakfast News, they made their way out of Room 69, buzzing with contentment. However, it became evident that something was rotten in the Hotel Excelsior.

The stench of mackerel now pervaded all the corridors, wafting through the air vents with offensive persistence. Dozens of conference-goers were trudging down the stairs due to the still-out-of-commission lifts. They were grumbling and slouching, their eyes black with dark circles, faces drawn with discontent, like a zombie army.

Greg glanced wonderingly at John, who feigned ignorance.

When they reached the ground floor, it became apparent that all was not well on a more holistic scale. Even by Met standards, that deduction was obvious.

A host of irate people - a great many police officers among them - were gathered round the Reception Desk.

Greg’s ears were met with a storm of angry complaints. Chaos had come to Cardiff.

His heart sank as he realised today was not going to be so pleasant after all. John gave him a subtle pat on the arse, winked and then disappeared into the crowd.

“Oi!” Greg hissed at his retreating back.

Greg circulated the foyer, gathering intelligence, making enquiries. Apart from the obvious rage emanating from the crowd, something else was wrong here. People were dressed…oddly. Everyone was wearing ill-fitting clothes, too baggy or too tight, in colours that didn’t suit them. They fidgeted uncomfortably and pulled at their collars and waistbands.

Everyone Greg spoke to had someone else’s luggage in their room, and nobody had yet found their belongings. Judging from the representative sample, he leapt to the correct conclusion: it wasn’t just a few suitcases that had been swapped by the gentleman burglar. It was every single one. Worse still, people had woken to find that the clothes they'd been wearing the day before had disappeared in the night. They had had no choice but to wear whatever was in the stranger's bag. People had started recognising their own outfits adorning others’ bodies and were accosting the wearers. 

“Hey, that’s my best blouse!” 

“Excuse me, do you mind not stretching out the neck on my jumper - it’s cashmere, you know!” 

“What do you mean it's too short anyway?! It’s not my fault you’re too fat to fit in it!”

Shaking his head, Greg moved swiftly through to the business rooms set aside for the conference, and found coffee outside the main hall once again. People were clinging on to their cups for dear life, looking haggard.

He checked his watch. The second day sessions were about to start, but there didn't seem to be any appetite for it. There had been an appetite for breakfast, but it had been summarily cancelled and everyone was in a rotten mood.

Greg spotted the little spiky-headed Porter from yesterday evening, grabbing himself a cheeky freebie coffee.

"Go on, then. What's happened?" he asked, casually.

The young man flushed slightly. It didn’t take long to establish what had been going on before and after Greg had been romping with the Concierge. He could only assume that his 3am wake-up-call by the masked intruder had been the dastardly villain’s idea of a celebration. 

Just after he and John had gone up to bed, all the key cards had stopped working, so every room had been left unsecured all night. The mass migration of personal property had apparently ensued while people were in the bar, or asleep, or busy having sex. Added to which, every single room - except Room 69 - had had its water shut off, and not a single toilet in the hotel had flushed for 18 hours and counting. Every electrical appliance in every room, including the lights and the telly, had been stuck on all night. The Wi-Fi was out. The landlines were down, as were the mobile networks. That had Mycroft written all over it, thought Greg, perfectly accurately, but he suspected Watson had assisted. Oh, and every single toothbrush had been liberated - as the gentleman burglar had suggested - along with all the toothpaste.

The Hotel Excelsior was effectively under attack by pirates.

Even those people who had escaped hours on the loo after an ill-advised early breakfast, or managed to avoid a drug-assisted permanent morning erection, had been suffering in other ways for hours. They hadn’t washed since the previous morning or slept since the night before last. Those who’d ordered room service food never received it, and seeing as most of the conference delegates had spent the night in the bar, complaining about the guest lecturer, there were a lot of grumbling bellies and hangovers now. Everyone was sleep-deprived, badly-dressed, irritable, and very self-conscious about halitosis and body odour.

Greg had a very ominous feeling. Nevertheless, the conference seemed to be proceeding, and he slipped into a workshop in one of the smaller seminar rooms to hear about new innovations in protective body armour, which actually proved quite useful. When he emerged an hour later, however, things had unsurprisingly deteriorated.

The main lecture hall had been locked from within, so the key note speeches were running late or being cancelled altogether. Three very harassed-looking officials were arguing about who last had the key.

People were just hanging round, looking mournfully at their disconnected phones and drinking endless cups of coffee - which did nothing to help the current plumbing problems. Mackerel and urine pervaded the air, but being British, nobody dared mention it. 

A sudden loud ‘bing-bong’ rang out over the PA system, and Lucinda, the receptionist who'd taken a fancy to the Concierge, made an announcement in an overly pleasant tone that fooled no-one: "Ladies and gentleman at our Modern Policing Conference - due to, er, problems in the kitchen, and, erm, lack of ingredients, lunch will not be served today. There's been a clerical error, and everything in stock was collected by the local Food Bank. We’re sure you understand that we won’t be demanding it back, so do please make alternative arrangements. There are vending machines on floors 1 and 3. But they’re not as well-stocked as they might be, so... We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.”

Greg stood with his hands on his hips, scanning the room, seeking out the culprits of this latest gambit. But there was no-one to be seen. Still, he reflected, at least the proceeds of crime had gone to a worthy cause.

There was an outbreak of mass groaning and swearing among the overly-caffeinated, ravenous crowd. A few people gave up and left, possibly to get an early start on whatever choccy bars they could nab from the machines. The truly sensible ones departed for the earliest available train home, abandoning their absent luggage - and their colleagues - to fate.

"Have you seen what's happening in the lounge, sir?" chirped the Porter, sidling up beside Greg once more, his face glowing with merriment.

"Oh, God, what?!" he asked, his voice rising in disbelief. He followed the lad to a room just off the business suite. 

A luggage amnesty had been unofficially called. Hundreds of wheelie cases were now stacked up and scattered around, while increasingly frantic men and women rooted through them like vultures in search of a bargain at a car boot sale. All the case labels had been removed, and a fair few had been opened and had the contents swapped randomly around for added mischief. People were trying to identify their own cases and clothing, all cursing themselves for choosing the same generic black bags, black trousers and black skirts as everyone else. They were unzipping suitcases like insane game show contestants rummaging to find a prize against the clock. The lounge and the corridor outside it were awash with crumpled shirts, pants, bras and a few unintentionally discovered vibrators. Towels and toiletries, lube and condoms littered the place, as though everyone had packed for a Club 18-30 trip to Ibiza instead of a police conference in Cardiff.

The grey man from the conference organising committee stepped into the fray. "Please, ladies and gentlemen, I know this is a challenging situation, but let's remember why we've gathered here. We have now managed to open the main hall and the conference will proceed as planned, if a little delayed. I ask that you take your seats calmly! We are investigating the, er, suitcase situation, and will make sure all your personal possessions are returned to you in due course. We will get to the bottom of this. But now is not the time for hysteria! Please."

People turned and glared at him resentfully, and he quailed slightly. But most shrugged and decided to follow on, thinking there were probably better things to do than spend all day sifting through other people's spare knickers. Greg left the Porter picking up bras and giggling to himself. 

The conference hall was only half full. Nobody seemed to be relishing the prospect of sitting there all day, feeling stinky, starving, and sleepy. In fact, their attendance now seemed like a human rights violation. Greg seemed to be the only person who didn’t particularly mind being there; well-washed, well-fucked, and well-fed as he was. 

The first lecture was further delayed because they couldn't get the projector and laptop to work. When all the tech was finally set to rights, the session geared up to begin, though the audience were long past caring; a presentation on Ethical Policing in the Digital Age that promised to be every bit as tedious as it sounded. 

The speaker was a patronising woman in ‘quirky’ spectacles and a multicoloured ‘characterful’ cardigan, who used phrases like ‘blue sky thinking’, ‘going forward’, and ‘cascade’ as a verb. Gregory wished her nothing but incurable thrush, and tried to tune out as much of the droning nonsense as possible.

“And, of course, going forward, all of our officers will be incentivised to create outreach opportunities via social media…cascade our unique messages in an accessible, compassionate way…thinking outside the box to come up with key service solutions and action the 10 Gold Star Targets, as I mentioned earlier…”

“Oooh!” came a sudden, breathy voice over the speakers, interrupting her flow of babble.

Greg and two hundred other coppers all looked up sharply.

“Oooh! Oh! Big boy, do it to me!” said a young man’s voice, moaning with urgent desperation. “Ooh, Inspector, please, fuck me with your huge truncheon…”

Greg’s mouth dropped open. On the screen behind the dull lecturer, was what could only be described as a video nasty of a massive homosexual gangbang. The plot seemed to have something to do with a men’s prison, though the finer points of the narrative were lost amid an orgy scene that made the worst excesses of Caligula’s court seem tame and prudish. Ten men seemed to be slightly confusedly going at each other - some wearing wispy pieces of very non-standard-issue police uniform, and others wearing impractical striped shortie jumpsuits with holes ripped in the bottoms.

A stunned silence fell, interspersed only with obscene squelching noises and exaggerated moans of pleasure.

“Ooh, Officers, please don’t hurt me…,” pleaded a twinkie prisoner, who seemed extremely unhurt as his pale little arse was plundered by not one, but two enormous circumsized cocks. The blokes these out-sized appendages belonged to were muscly, tattooed hunks, each wearing only a handcuff belt, a copper's flat-top peaked cap, and a lewd smile.

Greg blushed beetroot purple as he recognised the film as one of his own naughty DVD collection: Police Fuckademy 2. Something was off about the voices though. The voices were all over-dubbed. The voices were all over-dubbed by Sherlock Holmes.    

Gasps and giggles now filled the conference hall, as the previously disgruntled and comatose audience suddenly sprang back to life.

The baffled speaker glanced behind her in alarm, and caught an eyeful of an enormous phallus penetrating a stretched, bleached arsehole. She choked on her own shock, stumbled back, knocked the microphone to the ground with a loud thump and squeal. She ducked - unintentionally giving everyone a much better view of a bit of casual rimming - then stood swiftly back up with the microphone in hand and gamely attempted to carry on lecturing.

"And so, er, we come to the importance of - oh dear - collaboration and compatibility with strategic framework operations…,” she said, quickly and much too loudly.

It was no good.

“I’m arresting you on suspicion of being a little cumwhore…” growled Sherlock, voicing a hairy bear of a policeman, who didn't fully realise that he must have arrested the lad already if he was buggering him senseless behind bars.

“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah…,” moaned Sherlock's impression of a cute curly-headed ne’er-do-well, with nipple piercings and no body hair whatsoever.

“How d’you like rough justice, you fucking slut?!” said a gruff Daddy-type, plunging his ten inch cock into a willing prisoner’s throat. Ah, thought Greg, so not all the voiceovers were Lock's. That was definitely John. He had a sudden vision of them recording this at 221B like naughty teenagers in a dormitory, while Mycroft sat with his hands over his ears. 

A few people left in shock and horror. But most did not. Some of the 'I'm so straight I don't even turn corners' type of blokes were covering their eyes, peeking through their fingers, and protesting far too much. Three woman sitting in front of Greg were absolutely killing themselves laughing with raucous joy, leaning on each other for support. Greg saw tears streaming down their faces as they turned to each other and repeated lines, pointing at the screen, cackling like a happy coven.

Greg, previously stony-faced and very, very hot under the collar, took one look at them and cracked. He leaned down towards them. “Gives new meaning to the phrase penal servitude, don’t it?” he quipped, making them scream with hysterics and slap at his arm in delight.

He let himself fall into uncontrollable giggles with them, until his sides hurt and his belly ached. One of the women was doing a fantastically accurate impression of the burly Daddy, whilst the other two compared various parts of the actors’ anatomy with their boyfriends, squealing like schoolgirls over the Cosmo problem pages.

The nearly-fainting lecturer stepped down in graceless disgust – finally defeated by hardcore gay pornography. Hurrah for Diversity in Policing, thought Greg, making himself laugh harder.

There were cheers as she left, and then protests when someone finally found the stop button on the laptop. People booed in disappointment. Then the screen suddenly pinged back to life, and the orgy was momentarily restored. Dozens of coppers whooped and applauded, wiping their eyes as the panicking conference organisers frantically tried and failed to find the projector’s off-switch. Raucous wolf-whistling and 'wah-heying' rang round the hall. The screen went off again. Then on again. Off. On. Off. On. It was almost as though someone had a remote control. 

"Oh, Sergeant, are you going to take down my particulars…?” came a badly-scripted line, with a telltale Sherlockian giggle on the end of it.

It was the final straw for the tired and hungry, and - up until now - very bored delegates. Howls of helpless laughter drowned out any other sound. Chief Inspectors, Superintendents and Commissioners fell about together, leaning on each other’s shoulders for support, sinking into their seats as they lost all control over their rib cages.

In that moment, they all knew the conference was over. It wasn't just over; it had collapsed into a pile of rubble. It was kaput, finito, dead in the water. Essentially, it was buggered.

Greg scanned the room for the remote control operative. He found nothing and cast his eyes to the heavens for inspiration. Which was fortunate, because that's exactly where it was located. He just caught sight of a straw-blond mop disappearing from a gap in the ceiling tiles, like a prisoner of war scurrying away from a searchlight. Greg could just discern his direction of travel, as the pornography projectionist in their midst crawled his way through a duct in the ceiling to make good his escape.

Greg rose and hastily worked his way past police officers literally rolling in the aisles. He bounded from the hall, and made for the side fire exit, just in time to see a tangle of spidery limbs and a pert bottom emerge from the ceiling, followed by a long, lithe body clad in black. Sherlock dropped to the ground with feline grace, then looked up at the advancing D.I., gulped, turned on his heel, and bolted in the blink of an eye.

"Enjoy the matinee, did you, Inspector?!" he called cheekily as he fled. 

Greg gave chase. His quarry turned a corner at speed and shifted up a flight of back stairs, not a fake hair out of place. Cutting across his path at a right angle, round a blind spot, John Watson was barrelling down the corridor, also intent on capture. As inevitably as a Warner Brothers cartoon, they clashed in the middle and knocked each other flying. They vaguely heard a sarcastic "Whoopsy daisy!" from the rapidly ascending gentleman burglar. 

"Bloody hell, Greg, I could have had him!"

"How was I supposed to know you were trying?! Oof, you're a sturdy lump. Bloody Rugger bugger. Anyway, I thought you were on his side?!"

"Nah. You've seen the state of it out there. It's every man for himself now, mate!" said John, getting to his feet, all jumpy with excitement. "The game's afoot. The chase is on! First one to catch him gets to choose what to do with him. Fair?"

Greg put out his hand and John shook it. "Deal."

They ran off in opposite directions, each hoping to head the escapee off or catch him unawares. As they did so, the assembled company of the ill-fated Modern Policing for Modern Crime conference, emerged howling and weeping from the lecture theatre, never having had so much fun on work time ever in their lives.

****

Mycroft Holmes could hear the laughter from his secret bolthole - the now-empty pantry in the kitchens, where he'd set up his voice-encrypted, single-channel satellite phone, his private laptop, and his Mossad-grade remote surveillance system. He fidgeted uncomfortably.  _Very difficult to successfully monitor a covert operation with a silicone plug lodged up your backside and a ring gripping the base of your balls like the very devil._

A loud ‘bing-bong’ rang out over the PA system and he jumped slightly. A laconic Welsh voice came on to announce: “Ladies and gentlemen, the swimming pool is currently closed. Someone thought it would be funny to fill it with washing up liquid. So unless you fancy a bubble bath, don't bother.” The sound clicked off, but was instantly followed by another bing-bong: "Please note, the gym has now been closed due to a jam in the equipment... No, sorry, due to jam  _on_ the equipment. Mostly strawberry I'm told." 

He gritted his teeth and muttered to himself. "Did not agree to Operation Bubbly Swim or Jammy Gym. Only supposed to do Hardcore Lecture, and even that was pushing it, but no, give him an inch..."

 _Bing-bong!_  “Folks, please also stay away from the sauna. It's freezing cold and emitting purple steam, the cause of which is yet to be determined.”

'Oh, please don't be a toxic cloud of powdered aluminum and crystal iodine,' prayed Mycroft to a God he didn't believe in. 'Please be a breathable smoke bomb of potassium nitrate, sugar and food dye...'

He had the sudden sensation that things had perhaps gone a bit too far. Seeing potential disaster on the horizon - one where he had to call off a Hazmat team and do a lot of heavy explaining to central government - he ran a few ciphers to his back-office support system. Probably time to catch the culprit and get going while the going was good. 

His train of thought was interrupted by another nerve-jangling, inappropriately cheerful bing-bong. “Ladies and gentlemen, could anyone who parked in the car park yesterday please come to reception… There’s been a slight problem…”

He scanned a hand-held screen for the signal from the tracking device he'd placed in Sherlock's wig. 

_Oh, bugger. He's on the roof._

****

John had disappeared like the well-trained war-zone soldier he was, and as Greg wandered the upper floors in fruitless search, he had to admit that Sherlock had well and truly given him the slip. Perhaps it was best to hold position in a central location, regroup, and hope that if he stayed put long enough his prey would come to him. Besides, he had an uneasy feeling about the recent bing-bong announcements, and wanted to establish just how much shit they might all be in. He worked his way from the 6th floor back down to the Reception area again, and was met with a scene from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Someone had evidently got out to a payphone, because the hotel was now swarming with lift engineers, cleaners, plumbers, electricians, as well as baffled porters, security guards, and car park attendants in high-viz jackets. Investigations were underway. 

"But I gave the valet my keys yesterday!" exclaimed a rather well-to-do man, gesticulating wildly to the welcome hosts.

"But we don't  _have_ a parking valet, sir!"

"Then somebody's nicked my car!"

A dozen people raised their voices in recognition, saying, yes, our cars have disappeared too, and what are you going to do about it? 

Then an almighty noise blared forth from outside. Greg peeked through the glass frontage of the foyer out at the car park. There were indeed a very sorry number of vehicles left compared to yesterday - but their alarms and hazard lights all seemed to be going off at once. Car owners grappled with each other to exit the building, searching for car keys that were no longer in their pockets. 

As they exited the building, however, a rain of key fobs showered down from above, having been thrown from the roof by a mysterious leather-gloved hand. The horde scrambled to find their own keys, not one of them thinking to look up at where they came from. 

Greg watched, as fascinated by human behaviour as he'd ever been. People were now hastening across the lobby with half-empty suitcases, as desperate to leave as third class passengers on the Titanic. The din of car alarms, and complaints, and coppers calling for calm amid rowdy laughter was deafening. 

"Goldfish," tutted a dark, despairing voice from behind Greg's left ear.

He span and gave the Concierge a piercing glare. 

"You've lost control here, haven't you?"

Mycroft pursed his lips in offence, refusing to incriminate himself.

"Go on, admit it," prompted Greg, hands on hips.

Mycroft held himself ramrod straight. "Never! This is merely a temporary blip. I'm working on stabilisation measures."

As though hearing these famous last words, a huge cloud of purple smoke took this as its cue to roll up from the basement gym. It rose up the stairs to the ground floor and oozed into the foyer, through the air vents, where it mingled with the stench of rotting fish guts and unflushed lavatories. It wafted like a Gothic fog and got in people's eyes. And those people started psychosomatically coughing, which spread infectiously - as all mass hysteria does - even though there was nothing toxic about the violet mist. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief as he instantly recognised it as a non-hazardous vapour. But not everyone could be expected to be so knowledgeable in these matters. He supposed that was why someone pulled the fire alarm. 

The place erupted into Pandemonium, and the Concierge sprang into action. He bolted for the stairs, shouting into his phone as he went: 

“This is Code Red. Shut down all systems, wipe our employee records, and commence digital clear-up. Boost the signal-jammer within a three mile radius and stop all calls referencing keyword 'Excelsior' to the fire brigade and the Cardiff police. We don't want them turning up! No uniforms on the ground, no chemical units, nothing. Operation Tardis aborted. Little Brother has surpassed himself, and I quit. [...] Worth it? Let you know next week. If I don't turn up to work, assume I've been flayed alive... Anthea, your witty asides about the special cushion are not currently welcome!"

Everyone poured out of the fire escapes, threatening to sue. Hundreds of exhausted and relieved police officers left the building, groaning and complaining, shaking their heads. Some still giggled as they fondly remembered the free porn screening. 

Greg took a seat and just watched them file out. It wasn't a stampede exactly. It was more like a swarm of angry bees. The scampish Porter was jauntily crossing the floor and caught his eye again.

"Not joining us, sir?"

"No, ta. I'll just wait here for my mates. Get yourself off, now. Don't think you'll be needed here for the rest of the day."

"Cool. Nice meeting you! And those three tasty blokes you're with. I'd give you my number but you've probably got enough on your plate, haven't you? Tell Blondy it's out back by the bins, where he asked. And thank Ginger for the cash. I'm Rhys, by the way." He winked and skipped out. 

Greg's mouth dropped open for something like the hundredth time that day.

A longish career in the Met taught a bloke a thing or two. Like when you're on a stakeout, if you stay in one place long enough, the perpetrator often falls right into your lap. This hypothesis was once again proven right. Sherlock, exhilarated and flushed from his nice little run around the place, his blond wig half-off, threw himself from a private staff door, and flung himself onto Greg.

"Sanctuary! I claim sanctuary! Watson's after me, and he's boiling mad. Can you deal with me instead, please?! John doesn't mess around when he's been messed around with!" he shouted over the screaming fire alarm, which finally shut off halfway through his sentence, leaving him yelling painfully into Greg's ear.

He winced. "Ow, bloody foghorn!" 

"Lestrade, save me," begged the not-so-dignified gentleman burglar, laughing and burrowing his head into his chest.

"Aw, there's my bonny lad. Had a nice time, have you?"

A red-faced John, eyes lit by adrenaline, now emerged into the lobby from the same direction. 

"You! I caught you fair and square!" he thundered, pointing threateningly, advancing with grim intent.

"No, no! I've handed myself in to the police, John, you can't get me!" squealed Sherlock as John bundled on top. 

"You heavy sods, ooof!"

"I can bloody get you! Rugby tackled me into one of those big planters in the corridor, the little fucker!" 

"So?"

"So there was a cactus in it!"

"Oww! Mind out! There are hairpins! Hairpins, John!" shouted Sherlock as John yanked the blond wig off him. A few dark curls sprang up and John ruffled them back to bounciness. 

"Bloody thing. Hate you blond, and Myc hates it too."

"Ooh, the big fat liar!"

"Pack it in, you two! Think we'd probably better move on, my loves. Now we're alone in this place." They looked around and saw it was true. Perfect escape time. "Where's your brother, baby?"

As if summoned by seance, Mycroft floated into the vividly-coloured, smoke-filled lobby, casually buffing his nails with a small file for effect. "Gentlemen, I do hope you've enjoyed yourselves. But I really feel we ought to be making tracks, don't you? It smells ghastly in here and purple isn’t my colour. Shall we?"

He led the way up the back stairs to the Honeymoon Suite base camp.

"So this is where you've all been hiding, is it? Should have known, but to be honest, I didn't really want to find you. I was enjoying being accosted by strange men," said Greg. 

"Don't feel short-changed, do you, love?" asked John, mildly concerned. 

"Not unless you're planning on taking me home now."

Mycroft cough discreetly. "No, dear. I have made alternative arrangements in more salubrious surroundings."

"That's my Mycie. Oh, Lock," said Greg, remembering something. "Your little inside informer says 'it's out back by the bins.' What does that mean?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "Ah ha! Excellent work," he said, approvingly, and bolted off again.

John smacked a hard glancing blow at his arse as he went, making him yip.

"Not done with you, Holmes! Greg's not saving you! I'll teach you to cut me out of the loop!" he yelled.

Mycroft gathered their things, including Greg's case and the small black valise of sex-toys, and they made their way downstairs and out the back of the hotel. 

The getaway car, a survivor of the great vehicular exodus, was parked by the recycling bins; a large black Bentley with diplomatic plates and blacked out windows. Sherlock sat in the driver's seat with a full chauffeur’s uniform on, complete with hat, looking unutterably bored.

"He's not bloody driving that," said John, to no-one in particular. "You, in the back," he commanded, yanking a protesting Sherlock out and manhandling him into the backseat after Mycroft. 

He took the driver's seat himself. "St. David's hotel it is, yeah?"

"Thank you, darling. Sherlock Holmes, stop shoving! Ouch, don't prod me there, I’ve still got the… Get off my lap!"

"He can't drive, he doesn't have a hat!" whined Sherlock, kicking the back of John's seat.

"Oh, give it a rest!" shouted Greg, slamming the car door and buckling up.

John reversed out and they all breathed a sigh of relief when they hit the main thoroughfare of traffic, away from the scene of recent catastrophe.

After an epidemic of giggling, Greg finally recovered his senses. "Er... What did you do with all the cars, Lock? And when did you have time?!" he said, trying to sound more concerned than he felt.

Sherlock yawned. "Plenty of time before my lecture to do a bit of creative parking. Not all the cars, sadly. Just the vulgar ones Mycie hates. Nothing's gone, exactly. Just not where it was left. 'Fraid some of them might be getting clamped in the town centre..."

Sherlock slumped his head on his brother’s shoulder. Greg frowned and looked over him to Mycroft. “This will have cost people money, you know.”

Mycroft scoffed, but a bit more guiltily than he intended to. “Oh, money...”

“Yes, and you had better come up with some way of making sure people aren’t out of pocket. I don’t mind the hotel chains losing out, but not the staff, or the guests if you can help it.”

“Yes, Gregory. There will be a few mysterious bonuses transferred into bank accounts, quite by error, all untraceable. Anthea has the guestlist. I'll arrange it.”

“Too right. So… Just couldn’t bear to let the whole conference go ahead, could you?”

Mycroft shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat and adopted his best superior demeanour to disguise it.

"Lock wanted to have the whole thing cancelled before you arrived. I favoured allowing you to attend it, with a few added extracurricular activities on the periphery to keep you amused. In the end, we compromised on giving you a half conference. Ish. Though it all collapsed a little more dramatically than I anticipated... But the second day programme was even less enlightening than the first, and the third day was mostly 'networking', whatever in hell that's supposed to be. Where do they pluck these ghastly phrases from?"

"Their arses."

"Thank you, John. Really, Gregory, you haven't missed anything important, and everyone will be talking about this for years to come. You'll be able to say 'I was there at the world's most disastrous conference', and that will give you cache amongst your peers."

"Oh, will it? Ta very much. I'll get a t-shirt printed,” Greg grumbled, glaring at his lover.

"I think it's very romantic," piped up Sherlock, snuggling up to the crook of Mycroft’s arm now.

Greg poked him in the ribs, making him jump. "Don't pretend this was solely for my benefit, you little reprobate. This whole thing was just an excuse for you to get your dressing up box out and do some chronic showing off. Can't you join the Baker Street Players or the local Gilbert and Sullivan Society, or something? You don't have to destroy entire public events to test out your silly wigs, you know!"

Sherlock sat up in outrage. "My professional custom-made hairpieces are not silly, they are sublime! And I didn't hear you complaining when you were 69ing with Blondy last night!"

"Yeah, well... You took advantage of me, I was all sleepy and horny." 

"Leather gloves, Gregory," smirked Mycroft, with a filthy leer.

"Any of you can wear those in bed anytime you like. But leave the wigs off, or I can't pull your hair when I come, can I?"

"Good point, well made," said John from the front seat.

Sherlock slumped back and closed his eyes again. “Mmm. Sleepy and horny…,” he murmured faintly, nuzzling against Mycroft's shoulder.

"Yeah, get some rest, baby. You're going to need your strength. You too, Mycroft Holmes. We've had the crime bit. Next comes the punishment. Isn't that right, Sarge?" 

John nodded vigorously. "Yes, guv. At fucking last. No time for napping. Here we are, look. Five star hotel. Perfect setting for a bit of punitive action, I'd say. Frankly, I'll settle for getting you all in the same bloody room again."

He pulled the Bentley into the posh driveway. Behind him, Sherlock grinned. He loved the thrill of the chase, of course. But being caught was by far the best part.


	6. Five Star Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all the quartet get together for a five-star fuckfest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short, fun epilogue after this, just for a bit of resolution, if you can bear it.

They checked into the hotel under their original pseudonyms. Greg had been allocated the alter ego ‘Peter Davison’, which he was not 100% chuffed about. To all intents and purposes they looked like four men on some kind of important business trip - even though one of them seemed intent on keeping his eyes closed all the way up to the huge rooftop penthouse overlooking the Bay.

It was modern, bright, and eminently spacious enough for four. More like a large apartment than a hotel room, with an outsize bed at one end, a dining area and a small kitchenette at the other, and a big shower room off to one side.

“What a room! Great views,” breathed John, impressed as hell. Sherlock loped in behind him, holding John's hand at arm’s length. He let himself be dragged along as he rubbed at his eyes in a snoozy grump.

"Ugh, what ugly architecture!”

Mycroft tutted. "It's not Claridges, I grant you. But there weren't any other suitable options to meet your high standards, Lock."

" _My_ high standards?! I can rough it like Lestrade and Watson. I don't need a 24-hour manicurist at my beck and call, unlike some!” His contemptuous snort was roundly ignored. 

“No-one who packs their silk dressing gown wherever they go can be said to know anything about ‘roughing it’, dear boy.”

"I think it's ace. It's bloody huge! Some ingrates are just spoiled rotten." John gave Sherlock a little shove, and he slapped at his hand petulantly.

"I deserve to be spoiled, don't I, Mycie?"

"No, but you are anyway. And frankly you've used up your allocation for the year. This whole escapade is Christmas and birthday,” he said, wagging a stern finger.

Greg stepped into the room, setting down his bags. “First things first. Nap time,” he decreed. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Holmeses were no longer running the show. “Look at that lad. Dead on his feet. How much sleep did you get last night?”

“Enough,” huffed Sherlock, fending off Greg’s hand as it tried to bring his chin round to face him.

“Meaning a couple of hours.”

“Meaning a classic 20-minute Locknap, Gregory.” Mycroft reached out to smooth his brother’s brow, and Sherlock jerked his head away, pouting. “You know what he’s like on a mission.”

Greg made an executive decision. “It’s just gone three o’clock. Plenty of time for sleep, showers, dinner and…the rest. So. Bedtime. John, help Mycie remove his, er, accessories…”

Mycroft blushed adorably as John fixed him with a teasing grin.

“Oh, I want to do it! He wouldn’t even let me see!” whined Sherlock, but he was turned and smacked towards the bed by a no-nonsense Greg.

They all crashed out together. Even the Holmeses were dopey and slow as their recent activities caught up with them. The euphoria of triumph and catastrophe, evasion and surrender had worn off, and they were in the middle of an endorphin slump. They slept deeply in a tangle of limbs thrown over each other; heads crooked into armpits and chests, legs intertwined. Sherlock babbled gently as he dozed, but no-one was woken by it, nor by fidgeting or snoring.

John woke first just before six, feeling groggy and disorientated. Gradually the others roused themselves, and they rose and showered, cleaning themselves inside and out, freshening up and bringing themselves back to life. By mutual tacit agreement, they avoided getting too cuddly to prevent the fun peaking too early. Although John, unable to resist, took the opportunity of washing Sherlock’s hair, adoring the way he limply let himself be scrubbed and massaged and petted, half-leaning against the tiled wall of the shower for support. His sometime skittishness and standoffishness melted away in moments like this, and it was something to relish.

Sherlock felt himself coming back online with an elevated mood - but played at being too tired to hold himself upright. He demanded that Greg lift him bodily out, and carry him over his shoulder back to the enormous room, where Mycroft dried him off with a soft towel, carefully and methodically. His brother took particular trouble with his tangled curls, running his fingers through them just so and setting them neatly around his ears. He received a peck on the nose for his trouble, and a breath-catching smile.

When he was done, Greg beckoned wolfishly to Mycroft. Sherlock and John watched with greedy eyes as the elder Holmes brother was laid upon the bed to have his cock ring and plug replaced, in complete silence. Greg planted a firm kiss to Mycroft’s right buttock, smacked him lightly and helped him to his feet.

Sherlock reclined in the nude and watched as his partners redressed in clean, casual clothes. They felt it was too early to give up being presentable just yet. Sherlock, however, knew he was presentable in any state of dress or undress. Mycroft handed him the blue silk robe he had indeed brought with him, and he slithered into it, sticking his tongue out in riposte to his brother’s knowing smirk.

Refreshed and alert once more, they ordered five-star room service, selecting a variety of exemplary fusion dishes, which Greg, being a steak and chips man, couldn’t claim to quite understand, but which seemed to please his lovers well enough. They drank wine companionably, barely exchanging words as they basked in a pleasant comedown after a very fraught day. They enjoyed the view and watched lights twinkle over the Bay as dusk fell.

‘All right,’ thought Greg, after a decent interlude of repletion. ‘That’s enough of that.’

“So,” he said abruptly, leaning back and folding his arms with an ominous glint in his deep, chocolatey eyes. “Pleased with yourselves, are you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, instantly. “What? We are, aren’t we?” he said, naively, at the double glare he received from John and Mycroft.

Greg had to stop himself grinning as a new game began. Divide and conquer.

“I honestly don’t know who I blame more for that little fiasco today,” he said, shaking his head.

“Mycroft started it!” said John.

“Sherlock escalated it!” said Mycroft.

“John encouraged it!” said Sherlock.

“You single-handedly took down the whole hotel, Sherlock,” said Greg, with cunning strategy. 

John bristled. “Oi, hang on, I know you think he’s superhuman, Greg, but who’d you think helped him nab all the toothbrushes?! And I did the jam, and the washing up liquid in the pool!” said John, incredulous that his achievements were being diminished.

“John!” gasped Mycroft. “I thought better of you.” He shook his head disapprovingly, trying to divert from his own culpability.

“Why? I did medicine at Uni. Stupid pranks are practically on the syllabus...” He trailed off, realising he was only incriminating himself.

Sherlock pounced.

“Ooh, and Hardcore Lecture was John’s idea in the first place, come to think of it. I just did the cars, and the suitcases, and the smoke-bomb, and the food, and the fish… Mycroft shut all the utilities and networks down! And he wanted me to give my lovely Professor speech.” 

“Yeah, Mycroft came up with the whole bloody idea - and you knew it would end in disaster with him prancing round in wigs, going all Raffles,” said John, pointing an accusing finger at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft threw up his hands in frustration. “It’s not my fault Little Brother’s got a screw loose!” he exclaimed.

“And more than one too!” said Sherlock, proudly.

“Yeah, well, you’re all very naughty boys and Papa’s very cross,” said Greg, matter-of-factly.

“Is he?” blinked Sherlock.

“No, not really. Actually quite proud. But Detective Inspector Lestrade, on the other hand… He is royally Pissed. Off.”

Mycroft swallowed thickly and felt goose bumps tingle over his skin. John slowly pushed his plate away, and folded his arms upon the table.

“Can’t have that,” he murmured, fixing Greg with a heated look through his sandy lashes.

“Nope,” Sherlock said, brightly, standing up and letting his robe slip to the floor.

“You do know streaking is an offence, sonny?” said Greg, with professional detachment.

“Not when it looks this good, it isn’t,” replied the naked offender, twisting from side to side to make sure everyone could appreciate the goods.

Greg stayed sitting. “Got me there. OK, my lad. If that’s the way you want to play it. What else is on the charge sheet? Hm. Let’s think: breaking and entering, taking without consent, impersonation, definitely anti-social behaviour, damage to property, probably all sorts of public decency offences, and most serious, most heinous of all – cheeking a police officer. Well, a whole bloody room full of them. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“You’re welcome?” replied the erstwhile gentleman burglar, with his hands on his hips.

“Sergeant,” said Greg, turning to a very eager-looking John, “I think this little nudey troublemaker needs a lesson or two in respecting authority. Care to help me enforce it? It’ll all go on your record, you know. You can earn yourself leniency for your recent misconduct if you do me a favour.”

Mycroft turned his head briefly away to stop himself smiling too widely.

“Yes, Guv. I know how to handle his type. But we haven’t caught the criminal mastermind behind the whole thing yet. Don’t think this silly little boy would come up with it all by himself. Think he was led astray by a person or persons unknown.”

Sherlock gaped in indignation. Mycroft being credited above him for anything, even in play, was greatly offensive.

“Don’t think we need to look too far, do you?” said Greg, smoothly, turning his full D.I. glare upon the now-pink-faced genius sat beside him.

“It is - as they say - a fair cop,” said Mycroft, enunciating the words with lordly extravagance.

“Yep. It is. Right. Clear this table, shove a duvet on it, and get some cushions as well. Think this will do as my interrogation room,” said Greg, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

Mycroft titled his head, querying, but did as he was told.

“Sarge, you can have first dibs on this fraudulent exhibitionist. Seems you might have to force a confession out of him.”

“Yep. Can do, sir.”

Sherlock put up a token struggle as John launched himself from his chair, grappled him and pulled his arms behind his back firmly, but not painfully.

Greg pulled a chair out at one end of the dining table, now set with bedding and cushions. John yanked Sherlock, wiggling and writhing like a furious otter, over to it, and sat, bringing his captive down across his knees with a bump.

“Wait! This is unjust! I demand a lawyer. I demand a last cigarette! Police brutality!” shouted the prisoner from upside down, enjoying himself enormously. “I threw myself on your mercy, Lestrade!”

“Yeah, but I ain’t got any, love. John’s turn to tan your arse. Got a score to settle,” said the D.I., unmoved.

“But he’s _awful_!”

Sherlock genuinely did feel more vulnerable being spanked by the lover who had started out as his best friend - being far more used to receiving discipline at the hard hands of the more instinctively authoritarian Greg, or the rotten big brother who had performed this unfortunate service for most of his life. Even in fun, John was a force to be reckoned with. John, with his tireless arm muscles. John was relentless and far less likely to be swayed by prettiness or pleas or promises, especially when he was actually a little bit annoyed about something. John could not be wheedled or manipulated at all, and he was fiendishly thorough. Sherlock had to face the fact that he was just a little bit embarrassed about being so easily reduced to a state of messy, randy submissiveness by this simple act, from a man he always sought to impress with his brilliance and composure. Being over John’s knee was all sorts of oxymoronic – thrillingly dreadful, wonderfully horrible, appallingly good.

John adjusted his position, raising his legs up on his toes to tilt Sherlock further forward and bring his adorably plush, wiggling bottom up towards him. Sherlock balanced himself with his hands flat on the floor and his still-damp curls dangled over his face.

He didn’t fancy his chances of a reprieve – not that he wanted one. But it was probably worth a shot, just for kicks.

“You hypocrite, Watson! You aided and abetted! You’re the reason the phrase ‘partner in crime’ exists!”

“I am when given the chance! Would’ve been nice to know about the guest lecture – and the purple haze. _Partner_ not bloody sidekick.”

‘Oh, whoops,’ thought Sherlock, ‘He is actually a little bit annoyed about something…’

He tried to make a case for himself.

“We have to have some secrets. To keep things interesting.”

“Oh, do we, now? Think you might change your mind about that.”

“No, John!” he protested, fruitlessly, as he felt himself being more securely restrained. “Stop it, you’re not supposed to… I mean, it’s not…”

“Yeah, don’t like getting it from me, do you? Maybe you’ll think twice about giving me the bloody run-around and pushing me into spiky plants...”

"Oh, that."

John raised his arm. "Yeah. That."

“Ow, Jooohn!” wailed the very sorry outlaw, as his inevitable comeuppance began.

Mycroft watched with his customary intense fascination as Lock was soundly spanked by their fire-cracker lover - his long body draped over the shorter man’s lap, making him seem almost ungainly for once.

He sat at the far end of the dining table, his head propped on his hand, feeling the pressure in his balls as the cock ring fought against his encroaching arousal. His erotic reverie was broken by a dark whisper in his ear.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Mycie Holmes. You are going to kneel up on this table and spread yourself for me. And I am going to use the little flogger in that smart briefcase you gave me, to make you wish you’d never had this silly conference sabotage idea in the first place. And you are going to face away from your baby brother, so he can see me doing it.”

“Oh, Gregory…,” he breathed, eyes closed as the deep, gravelly voice travelled like warm wax down his spine.

“Does that sound all right, love?” Greg checked gently, making sure it was evident that this was purely about mutual pleasure.

“Yes. Yes,” nodded Mycroft, urgently. They had talked before about the flogger and its uses. He had, of course, packed it in the hope of a new experiment in intimate sensation.

“Strip and get in position,” ordered Greg, tapping him on the cheek. Mycroft hastened to comply, butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

He climbed up onto the table, feeling more than a little ridiculous at being exhibited once again.

“No, don’t come up onto hands and knees. Down on your haunches and bend forward, like a cat stretch. Head on the cushion,” he instructed, as Mycroft brought his head to the side. Greg gently pulled his arms behind him, lying them flat alongside his upper thighs. “Keep that lower back pushed down for me, yeah? Arse out further. Roll your hips up, love. Yeah, there. Mmm. Do you know how you look, doll?”

“Absurd?” guessed Mycroft, in a gruff, tight voice.

“No. Not even a little bit. Fucking beautiful. Makes your bum spread open for me, this position. But I’m going to make you hold it like that anyway with your hands. Do that for me, love.”

Mycroft, blushing furiously hot, did as he was told, pulling his cheeks apart further to reveal himself to his lovers; nothing private between them at all. From across the room, John looked up and groaned at the new best view in the room.

“What?!” said Sherlock, as his spanking faltered. He looked up at his brother, spread and ready like a banquet dish on the dining table, and let out a helpless groan to match John’s. “Oh… Ow!” His attention was swiftly redirected by John’s hand.

“Don’t worry. You won’t miss anything,” John said, reassuringly, resuming his task with glee.

Mycroft closed his eyes, taking in the noise of Sherlock’s wails and John’s grunts, and of Greg’s little sounds of satisfaction as he walked round the table, scrutinising his handiwork.

“Hey, I’ve just realised something,” Greg said, chuckling gently. “You said purple wasn’t your colour. But this…,” he tapped the base of the plug, “suits you lovely.”

“Oh, Gregory, no jokes, please!” Why had he chosen a purple one, he wondered ruefully.

“Aww. Silly Mycie. Can handle anything you throw at him, but a few dodgy gags and he goes all squirmy. Let’s see what else makes him squirm.”

He went to the bed and extracted from the wardrobe the little case with its wicked contents. He returned with it, opening it on the table just in front of Mycroft’s face, reaching in and brandishing the small buff-coloured flogger - an expensive item of softest suede.

“Do you know, love, the thing I like most about this? It’s not black. Never one for clichés, are you, doll?” he said, conversationally.

Mycroft said nothing as he tried to focus on not tensing up or overthinking - but he was also lost for words amid self-consciousness and the sheer humiliating turn-on of the thing. Greg smiled, seeing his lover’s habitual internal struggle between staying in the moment and pulling himself out of a scene by dint of too much self-awareness. Mostly, his silly jokes and casual commentary were a device to stop the intellectually overburdened Holmes mind from going walkies.

“Ready for this, my darlin’?” he enquired, softly.

The auburn head gave a slight nod. “Mm.”

Greg lightly stirred the flails up and down Mycroft’s back in a circular, brushing motion, then flicked and stroked with them, before thrashing more convincingly. He was careful not to wrap the thin strands round his shoulders or waist, and avoided his lower back where the internal organs would be vulnerable to any mis-hit. Mycroft leaned into the sensation as the blows kissed and stung lightly between his shoulder blades. He moaned as the very tips of the leather strips tickled down his back, and came to rest upon his buttocks.

The art of flogging was all in the skill of the giver, thought Mycroft – the close observation of the recipient’s reaction; the avoidance of danger zones; the build up from light blows to hard whips; a step-by-step fade-up of sensation, gradually raising the intensity through repetition and careful, accurate aim. 

Though Greg had really only developed these skills since the onset of this unique fourway arrangement, he was as conscientious and attentive in this as he was in all sexual matters, and had spent a long time researching, practicing on pillows, and using any excuse to watch ‘instructional videos’. 

“Hands away now,” Greg insisted, and Mycroft obeyed, ceasing to hold his buttocks spread.

Greg flicked his wrist sharply, and the little flails shot forth and retracted back in the blink of an eye, connecting sharply with the quivering globes in front of him, leaving a fiery peppering of pink marks in their wake. He did it again and again, harder and faster over the meatiest part of Mycroft’s arse, being sure to avoid lashing his balls unexpectedly from behind.

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as the sting increased, buzzing across his pulled-tight, exposed bottom. Sometimes the flogger hit the base of the plug, causing his back to arch up in automatic reaction. Greg gently pushed his spine back down, and as he did so, pushed the plug further into him with his free hand, pressing and wiggling it inside him.

Mycroft opened his mouth in near-shock, moaning uncontrollably as the tip of the plug, which had been grazing at his prostate for most of the day, now touched upon it directly again and again. Greg kept his hand pressed on his lover’s lower back to encourage him open as he frigged him on the toy. He delighted in the tenor-voiced keening it elicited, as the mighty British Government - and sometime felonious instigator of petty fraud and public mischief - started to fray at the edges.

The sound was mirrored by Sherlock behind them, and he heard John whisper “fuck” to himself. He looked round to see that the spanking had now stopped, and John had his middle finger lodged up inside Sherlock, still bent over his knee. The lanky detective, his usually pale bottom now blushing with John’s handprints, was frotting himself exquisitely on John’s muscular thighs, watching slack-jawed as Greg dealt with his big brother.

“More lube, John,” urged Sherlock, thrusting his hips up and down more rapidly.

“Oh, sorry, babe…”

Greg smiled. Time to step things up a notch.

He twisted the plug and slowly slid it free from Mycroft’s clutching hole, admiring the fine-line welts raised upon his surrounding skin. He watched with fascinated appreciation as it was released, glistening with the remnants of lube, and he stood clear so John could see it from where he was sitting. Mycroft groaned and pressed his face into the cushion as he gaped open to the full view of his lovers.

“How are you feeling?” Greg murmured soothingly.

“Mm. Tingly. Hot. Sore, but not too much,” answered the elder Holmes brother, knowing truth was required of him.

“Good. What do you think I’m going to do now, clever Mycie?” Greg crooned, rubbing at his lower back.

“I don’t… Don’t know, sir.”

“No? I think you do.”

“I… I can’t say it, Gregory!”

“Yes, you can. Or you don’t get it.”

“Ooh… I... You’re going to…flog my, erm, without the, erm, the thing in.”

“Hmm. Nearly what I wanted to hear, but I know it’s sometimes difficult for my Mycie to say naughty words, innit? Let me be more specific. I’m going to whip that pretty pink arsehole of yours. I’m going to flog you between your cheeks, right on that juicy little cherry between them, and it is going to sting like hell. But I won’t damage you, sweetheart. Just make it really sore. Make you scream if I can.”

Mycroft gasped as the words registered and caused his heart to flipflop in his chest. His cock ached in its restrained state, nearing desperation for release.

“Please. Oh, please, Gregory. I’ll scream for you. I’ve been so full, so _hard_ all day, and I haven’t… I mean, since Sher…”

“Since you spread your legs for your baby brother and let him fuck you?”

“Yess…. Oh, he did, Gregory…”

“And I didn’t get to see it at all. Not like he’s seeing this now. Seeing your disgrace, as you let me punish your greedy little hole. Such an unrepentant _slut_.”

Mycroft moaned in a strangulated tone of surprise that sounded as though he had caught his fingers in a drawer. Greg’s verbal domination simply scrambled his brain and incoherence was his only available response.

Greg smirked, seeing the satisfying breakdown of language in the most eloquent of his lovers.

He brought the flogger’s tails to rest between Mycroft’s parted bottom cheeks, letting it tickle up and down, and round the open, moist pucker.

Mycroft inhaled, preparing himself, and Greg held one buttock further apart to allow himself greater control. He flicked his weapon once, lightly, in a downwards motion against his target. Mycroft gasped sharply, but not harshly. A fair response, thought Greg, and did it again, slightly harder, slightly more accurately. The tails of the flogger kissed at the soft, thin skin of his lover's perineum and ignited a fire up his arse, right through his central nervous system.

Mycroft’s head came up with a jolt as he felt hot snaps of electricity zinging round his most sensitive inner flesh. Then it happened again, and again, and he whimpered as the tiny stings built to something he fully recognised as pain – needle sharp and almost overwhelming. He howled out as Greg have him two more firm, quick flicks of the flail, and they rained across his spread cleft. His hips jerked away instinctively to avoid the wicked pinprick shocks.

“One more, darling, one more for me.”

He nodded, sweating and panting through clenched teeth, but happily complicit in his own torment.

Greg levelled his flogging hand and steadied himself upon Mycroft’s hip with the other. Then, harder than the rest, he let the full range of the flails loose with a harsh blow. Mycroft let out an authentic but truncated scream into the cushion. His hands clutched the table sides. His feet and toes curled and flexed as the pain rushed through his blood and made his head spin.

“Ssh. Good boy. Good, sweet Mycie, oh, beautiful…,” crooned Greg, stroking insistently up and down the slightly welted and swollen skin beneath him. “Too much?”

Mycroft shook his head vigorously. Thrusting his hips to reinforce his message.

“Ah,” said Greg, moving his hand down between Mycroft’s legs to cup his trussed and restricted balls, then up to caress his straining prick, wet with precome.

“Do you want to try it here? I’ll allow it. Just a bit. Very, very light. ”

Mycroft exhaled, relieved at not having to ask. “Yes. Please. Do it.”

Greg helped him roll over onto his back, kissing him passionately as he did so. They groaned against each other’s open mouths. Mycroft winced as his legs closed and his flogged backside was pressed against the table, cushioned though it was by the duvet from the bed.

“Careful, love,” called out John, unnecessarily, but with a doctor’s inability to refrain from comment in the face of a potentially risky physical act. He would trust no-one but Greg, or himself, to do this right.

“Oh, brother mine…,” whispered Sherlock, watching with envy and admiration combined as Mycroft was laid out like an offering, preparing to receive new sexual data.

Greg petted Mycroft’s chin and cheek, keeping eye contact to make sure his lover could see his intention, but also so he would be able to gauge the correct level of force – as minimal as possible, but it wouldn’t take much to get him to the bliss-point he was seeking. He stroked the flogger over Mycroft’s achingly hard cock and swollen balls, letting its strands fall around them. Then he raised his hand and gently let it fall. A slight flinch flickered across Mycroft’s face, but he nodded. More. But not much more. Greg raised his hand again, and this time, with more intent and more energy, flicked the flogger firmly down onto his engorging genitals.

Mycroft yelped loudly, and bit his lip. When Greg did the same six times more, harder, he writhed and gasped open-mouthed to the ceiling. His cock twitched, feeling raw and inflamed and smarting; his balls drew up defensively but were restrained by the cock ring. He rode out the sensation of discomfort and waited for it to translate back to pleasure, breathing raggedly and squeezing his eyes closed.

“Hold it up for me,” ordered Greg, enjoying the instantaneous obedience. Mycroft held his cock straight up from the base, the hot, dark head, flushed with blood, poking up above his fist. Greg’s face was a mask of dark concentration as he flicked it with the very ends of the leather strips, a half dozen or so times in very quick succession. Mycroft whinged and writhed, shuddering as a few white drops spouted up from his slit and leaked over his hand.

Acting quickly, Greg clamped his hand round Mycroft’s, squeezing and making him wail pathetically as his arousal was forced down. Mycroft bit at his other hand, making a continuous low moan as he exhaled through the gripping sensation and tried, against all instinct, not to come.

“No. No, save it, darling. Save it. Need you to save it. Save it for Lockie,” panted Greg, his own control hanging by a thread. His cock was as ragingly stiff as it could be without having been touched once - taken right to the edge by the sight of one Holmes, helplessly turned on with a whipped prick; and the sounds of another, whining and pleading while his spanked arse was fucked on John’s fingers.

Mycroft looked up at him with astounded, mind-boggling desire.

“Oh, Gregory, you foul corrupter. Filthy, very bad man…,” he choked out, finding his voice once more in an effort to stave off the pure dizzying sensation that threatened his resolve.

“Mm. I am a wrong’un, me. Worse than any Holmes, I reckon.”

Mycroft nodded sincerely. The ultimate compliment. Greg grinned.

“Gregory, that was…”

“How you imagined it?”

“Nearly. Incredible. Sharper. More…”

“Ssh. Tell me after, when you in full working order again. I’m gonna take your ring off, OK? But no touching.”

“Yes, Gregory. Thank you.”

Greg waited for his lover’s huge hard-on to recede and slowly eased the cock ring from the root of his swollen balls. He checked his cock over, finding it a little puffy and tender, but not hurt.

“You get up when you feel ready, love. I’m going to check on those two idiots.” He winked and planted a kiss to Mycroft’s smiling lips, observing with delight the faraway, slack look in the ordinarily tightly-set features.

Greg turned to take in another extraordinary view. Sherlock was frantic, and John wasn’t far off it - red in the face with frustration. His cock burnt with friction as Sherlock fidgeted upon it and impaled himself back onto two of those well-trained doctor’s fingers. John was unbearably hard in his trousers, and cursing himself for not undressing when this whole thing started. Greg caught the needy look in the greeny-hazel eyes, and observed the way Sherlock’s lower lip was clamped between his teeth, his forehead wrinkled in concentration and want.

“Watson,” said Greg, with a comradely air. “Kindly tie that little tearaway to the chair you’re sitting in. Bend him over the back of it. One ankle to each leg. Wrists together, but put his hands flat on the seat. He’ll need to brace himself. Use the short lengths of rope in that case, and get yer kit off.”

If John had had a spare hand, he’d have saluted.

Sherlock made complaining noises as the teasing fingers were withdrawn, but he climbed eagerly off John’s lap to assume his new position. John moved quickly, and tied him to the chair as instructed with sure, certain moves, binding him restrictively but not too tightly. He slipped a pillow under Sherlock’s sharply jutting hips to stop the back of the chair digging into his abdomen, and stepped back to check his work. He stripped off, chucking his clothes away as though they upset him.

Greg, having taken his own clothes off at rapid speed, came up to him and they met in a fierce embrace, their cocks touching together and heightening their mutual need.

“Oh, Johnnyboy…,” groaned Greg, possessively.

John moaned and rutted against his leg. “Need to fuck. Someone. Any of you, all of you,” he rambled, desperately.

“Yeah. About that…,” Greg gently pushed John away, holding onto his upper arms, and said for the benefit of the entire room, “Lockie…?”

“Mm?” squeaked Sherlock, from his trapped, bent position.

“Do you reckon if we all fucked you, that would be enough attention to last you the rest of the day?”

“Oh… Mm-hm. Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“Do you reckon we could get you nice and quiet, and turn off all those nasty little worries that brought you here, just for a bit?”

“Greg, I…,” his voice faltered.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, yes!” Sherlock was nodding, wiggling his backside, looking round his shoulder to try and catch someone’s eye, and pulling against his restraints.

"Good. Now, the only question is, who’s going last?"

"I am," said John, in a low, devilish tone.

"Yeah?" Greg stroked at the other man’s blunt prick, teasing at the head with this crooked palm.

John panted with need. "Yeah. Me. I want him last. Want to feel him all loose and wet. Want to stir you two up inside him and feel it spill out over my cock."

"Fucking hell, John," husked Greg.

"Degenerate,” murmured Mycroft, in awe.

John nodded. "I wanna know you've both been there. I want my Sherlock taken by you and offered up to me. Used goods is what I want. Sloppy thirds. Then I want the posh boy to eat it all out of him after too. Do that for me, would ya?"

"Satan," accused Mycroft, deeply impressed. Greg’s brain swam with every filthy sentence uttered by John’s filthy mouth.

“Gonna wreck you, Lock. Is that what you want? What you need, baby?” he whispered, coaxingly.

Sherlock nodded reverently. "Yes. Make me fly. Make it quiet."

"Sweetheart. We'll make you. Make you stop babbling in your sleep, yeah? Shut down the auto for a bit."

"For a bit."

"So when you come back, you'll be all new. All new and shiny."

"Greg, make me - "

"Ssh. Give it up. Give it up now,” he soothed, rubbing circles over his bent back. “There you go. Got nothing left in you. Only what we put there. No worries. Only got to go where we send you."

"Sssh," agreed Sherlock. 

Greg took the lube being proferred by John, and began slicking himself up, igniting under his own hand. He was so sensitive it felt as though he hadn’t been touched for days. He rubbed a little more round Sherlock’s sweet, open bud, pushing his cheeks apart between finger and thumb.

“Such a tasty little peach, this arse,” mumbled Greg, his inner monologue failing to kick in under the duress of extreme arousal. Sherlock bucked back onto his hand in response, eager to be filled up by not one, but all three of the men he adored.

Greg sighed and lined up the bulbous head of his prick with the entrance to his youngest lover’s body, urging slowly forward until it gave way to him. Sherlock’s flesh was hot - his backside reddened with his recent spanking - but it was even hotter on the inside. Greg shivered as he was taken into the smooth passage. Sherlock made a repetitive purring noise in the back of his throat. He tried to spread his legs, forgetting that he was prevented by the ropes round his ankles. Instead he bent further forward, letting his hands overhang the seat of the chair, going limp for Greg to manoeuvre at will. Greg gripped the handles of his young lover's hips and used them to fully plunge himself in up to the hilt. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in a silent howl, and he threw his head back as the nub of his prostate was deliciously assaulted.

Mycroft, now sitting upright on the dining table, caught his brother’s ecstatic expression and beamed at him. Every inch of his arse and prick, in and out, up and down, throbbed with the sting of the flogger, but he was impossibly hard as he watched a three-fold marvel: Greg pounding into his sublime little brother, and John wanking himself with slow, self-indulgent strokes as he too watched it happen. Mycroft removed himself from the table and stumbled over his feet slightly. He learnt to walk again as he came to embrace John from behind, resting his chin upon the top of his fair head.

He brought his hand round and made a circle of it. “Fuck my hand, darling,” he whispered hotly into the shorter man’s ear. “Let me help while you await your turn.”

John made a low, approving noise, as if to say, “ooh, naughty,” and did as he was told.

Greg was getting louder now, thrusting harder and deeper while Sherlock moaned continuously. His hips stuttered and he had a sudden flash of inspiration.

“Here,” he ground out. "Come here, Johnny, Myc. Here.”

Intrigued beyond bearing, they went.

“John,” Greg nudged his head to the left side, indicating for him to stand beside him. “Give me your forefinger. Put it...alongside me. There."

John’s eyes dilated and his brows hit his hairline.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Gonna make it bigger for him.”

Sherlock gasped and twisted his head round, his face red and straining. His cock was pushed unsatisfyingly into the pillow beneath his hips, unable to access easy friction, so that his pleasure was held tantalisingly out of reach. John’s finger, nuzzled against the length of Greg’s thick prick, penetrated his hole at the same time, opening him by another few centimetres. Sherlock bit his lips and bore down against the increased girth, spinning into space at the very idea.

"Oh, Christ, Greg... He's so...,” moaned John, eyes to the heavens.

"I know. Soft."

"Just absorbs it. One day..."

"Yeah, one day, both of us, John. Fucking him together. Rubbing each other inside him, while our Mycie fucks his face..."

“Oh, yess…,” hissed Sherlock, in an erotic trance.

John was reduced to adjectival worship. "Slick...smooth...soft..."

Greg gave a wolfish, toothy smile, and turned his head to the other side. "Mycroft," he said.

"Please. Please,” begged Mycroft, taking his position.

"Finger, other side to John's," said Greg, unnecessarily.

Mycroft felt a jolt deep in his gut that ran right through his arse and into his flushed and dripping cock.

"Gregory, I might die... Oh, baby boy, how you stretch...," he crooned with a connoisseur’s appreciation, as his finger, along with John’s, pushed with Greg’s cock into the prone, willing Sherlock, who quivered and shook with sensory overload.

"Feel us, Lock?"

"Ye--- I... Oh. Can't...so..."

"Got all three of us in you, lovely boy. My cock. Johnny's finger. Brother's finger. Wide open, you are. Sucking us in."

"Gregjohnmycrooohh," he babbled, feeling the intense stretch right the way through the depths of him - not painful, not exactly comfortable, but incredible. Challenging. Mindgasmic. It anchored him to the moment and bonded him uniquely to his lovers.

Greg seemed to be the only man in the room to have retained the power of speech. It was his sexual superpower, he supposed. Holmeses and Watsons had the gift of the gab in their own special _milieus_. The bedroom was the realm where he was most eloquent.

"Now, listen to me, Lock, sweetheart. I'm going to fuck you so hard that when I've come up your arse you'll feel it in your throat. Then I'm gonna let Mycie plunge himself into the mess I leave behind. And then - you gorgeous little spunk-bucket - then I'm going to hand you over to our John, and he's going to spurt inside you 'til you flood over him."

Sherlock made an incomprehensible noise of encouragement. John and Mycroft slid their fingers away, and Greg picked up his pace, thrusting into Sherlock with unrestrained vigour. Sherlock keened and exclaimed with every stroke, his mouth now permanently open and noisy. After a while longer, Greg’s hips suddenly locked out, and he practically roared as he emptied himself inside his lover's grasping arsehole. He paused, riding out the aftershocks, making sure every last drop was deposited, then pulled out carefully, checking that no incidental injury had been sustained. Sherlock gasped and hummed - and they all heard the smile on his lips.

Mycroft stepped up, aghast, feeling vertiginous with unspent lust. His raw prick tingled and throbbed, and stung even more when he lubricated himself using Greg’s left-behind semen. The pain redoubled and folded back in on itself, heightening the intensity of his pleasure as it worked its way through the compartments of his complex, sophisticated Holmes brain.

He sank easily into his brother’s loosened and slippery hole, feeling gloriously debauched at the sinful sensation of squishing through Greg’s warm, fresh spend. He curved his hips upwards, seeking the very end of his brother’s channel, letting his length be engulfed by the full extent of him. The rawness intensified, but the pleasure surged forth beneath it and he fucked back and forth in a frenzy. Then, he fell apart, as one of John’s fingers entered his own tingling, puffy hole, crooked upwards and milked his orgasm from him. Blackness fluttered at his peripheral vision and he shot his hot fluid forth into Sherlock, just as Greg had done, with a long, drawn-out cry of adoration.

Huffing and puffing with spent exhaustion, he slipped out of Sherlock’s lax body with a wet popping noise. Sherlock mewled something that sounded like “brother”.

John gently pulled Mycroft to one side, kissing him and handing him over to Greg’s care. Greg held him upright, for just a little longer, while they watched the Doctor at work.

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes,” crooned John, tracing his finger round the wet, loose edges of Sherlock’s reddening hole. “What a dirty boy. What a sloppy, sticky mess.”

“Yes, John…,” whispered Sherlock in a strangulated voice. He glancing back over his shoulder, his face flushed from being held upside down for so long; his sparkling, brilliant eyes huge with desire. He pitched his voice low and husky, aiming directly at the heart of John’s weakness. “John, make me wetter,” he said, in what ought to have been a plea, but which was really an undeniable order.

John’s legs shook under the weight of his own need, and he clutched his lover’s hips desperately, guiding his diamond-hard cock to the place it most wanted to be. He pierced through the ring of muscle with almost no resistance, and was met with the odd, yet entirely pleasant sensation of sinking into the combined essence of two men, within one shared body.

The sound was simply obscene as he slowly pushed and pulled himself through a swamp of his lover’s semen, but it was drowned out by a symphony of moans and exclamations from around the room. Sherlock’s voice was higher pitched than he had heard it before, and John's more bestial than he thought himself capable of. Behind them he heard Greg’s ragged breathing and the gasping, low groans emanating from an utterly dazed Mycroft.

“Oh, John. Oh, John, flood me,” begged Sherlock, sounding near-tears with need, and that was enough to finish it. John threw his head forward as his white-hot cock erupted and he shook himself to pieces, biting down and clenching his jaw hard as he spasmed. He heard his heartbeat in his ears, and waves of pleasure thrummed up from his belly and exploded behind his eyes.

He said nothing and made no sound at all as he filled Sherlock to bursting, feeling his own come mingle with his lovers’ and spill out over the base of his prick.

When he came back to himself, it was to the sound of Sherlock’s deep, bassy laugh, and stunned commentary from behind him.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” said Greg.

“Fuck _me_ ,” said Mycroft, uncharacteristically falling into the hyperbolic vernacular.

John carefully withdrew from Sherlock’s arse with a slurping, sucking noise that delighted him - vile creature that he knew himself to be.

Sherlock giggled now, his voice pitching higher as he enjoyed how insane he felt, and revelled in his all-too-willing debasement.

“You’re all revolting,” he said, joyously. “And I’m disgusting.”

John began untying him, watching with fascination as a river of white viscose liquid oozed out from his loose hole and ran down his legs. Mycroft knelt behind him, cast a dirty, flirtatious look up at John and Greg, and began licking it up from his brother's cleft and thighs with long, catlike strokes of his tongue. John ran a hand through his own hair and let it rest on his forehead as he took in the sight of Holmes on Holmes, the one cleaning the other as if by primal instinct. As if the most natural unnatural thing in the world. Mycroft swirled the combined tastes of them all round his mouth like fine wine, performatively demonstrating his commitment to them, hoping the message was loud and clear: there are no lengths to which I will not go to please you.

Sherlock whimpered as he was ritually lapped up, wincing slightly as Mycroft's tongue made contact with his sore, throbbing arse, still dilated and gaping from accommodating so much love. Mycroft relented, and merely kissed his soft perineum soothingly, tonguing gently at him until Greg was there with a flannel and a towel to mop them all up with gentle pats. John helped undo Sherlock's wrists, and rubbed them to get the blood flowing more rapidly before helping him shakily to his feet.

Mycroft stood and kissed his beloved's mouth almost shyly, sharing their tastes. John petted his hair.

“Hello, Trouble,” said Greg, grinning and scooping him up into his arms with playful irony. He carried Sherlock over to the bed, dropping him onto it with a flourish, making him squeal. He rolled the still-pliant body over onto his front, inspecting his tender hole to ensure no harm had been done. Satisfied, he rolled him back over and playfully nuzzled at his neck.

Sherlock bounced and play-fought, as all three of his lovers prowled over, and onto, and around him. Greg was the first to go down on him, sucking him to full hardness, gently at first and then more firmly. John and Mycroft nibbled at the g-spots of his ears and nipples alternately, driving him wild and sending delicious jolts of energy through his entire body. Greg’s teeth came out to play, just barely pressing against the ridge of his cockhead, biting and teasing it with light, dangerous pressure. Just as Sherlock seemed to reach a peak of pleasure, Greg removed his mouth, and swapped places with John, who sucked him hard and fast, his head bobbing up and down in his lap with steady, determined pulls. Again he withdrew as he sensed Sherlock’s balls drawing up and his breath coming faster.

John swapped with Mycroft, who deepthroated him in one long slide, and swallowed repeatedly around him, caressing his velvety sack and humming delightedly. The vibrations and the depth were too good to be bearable for too long, and this final brain-frying act pushed Sherlock Holmes over into full sensual madness.

"Coming. Oh...I'm _coming_...!" he breathed, brokenly, then shuddered and convulsed as he spurted powerfully down his brother’s gullet. Mycroft barely even tasted him, but gulped with satisfaction as Sherlock's fluid mixed with the rest to finally fully sate him.

Not a word was spoken – nor needed to be. John brought the duvet and pillows back over from the table, and threw them down to his partners. They flopped exhausted into a deep, satisfying slumber, each man touching the other in a shagged-out heap.

They slept silently through the night. In the early hours of the morning, just as dawn rose, John stirred awake, too long inured to early starts by a lifetime of military and medical discipline. He attempted to get up for the loo, but was prevented by a lanky arm thrown over his chest.

Sherlock mewled and whinged, not yet ready to be out of contact. "No-no-no. Stay. Stay," he whispered, clinging on to him. John wiggled gently free and rolled him over towards whoever was nearest, which happened to be Greg.

"S'allright, mate. Gotta get up or you'll regret it...," he chuckled.

"No-one’s going anywhere. Sssh. You're all right. Back to sleep,” whispered Greg, stroking him calm again from the opposite side. He winked across at John, who took the opportunity to sneak off to the bathroom, crawling over Mycroft's rigidly still form to escape. Sherlock grumbled as he felt the bed dip.

When John returned, scratching himself - his hair gorgeously ruffled and sticking up crazily - Mycroft had moved over to spoon his brother from behind. John crawled back into bed, slipping in next to him. He cuddled up, tangling his legs in with both Holmes boys.

"God, this is my favourite thing. This right here," he hummed into the elder Holmes’s ear.

"He's an angel, John," whispered Mycroft, radiantly, yawning slightly in the morning light. 

John's smile was warm and kind as he shook his head. "No. He isn't."

Mycroft chuckled softly. "I know."

"He's real," nodded John with profound truth.

Greg blew an eyelash from the sleeping detective's cheek and he barely twitched. "So much the better. Who needs angels when they make humans this good?"

Mycroft buried his head in the nape of his brother's neck, the curls tickling at his nose. He breathed in - a deep inhalation of essential Sherlockness. Rich and spicy, and redolent of magic.

"Yes," he said, simply. "Yes."


	7. Epilogue: the unofficial conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little final wrapping up.

Breakfast the next morning was sumptuous, the scrambled eggs untainted by noxious substances or supplements best prescribed by a GP. A trolley of high-quality dishes had been left outside the room, and they sat around replenishing their strength, wearing the thick, towelling robes provided by the hotel. All except Sherlock, who naturally refused to conform to white terrycloth, favouring his usual blue silky number. The atmosphere was distinctly post-coital. The kind where people continually find excuses to touch each other when passing the milk, and look from under their eyelashes with a conspiratorial smirk as they remember all the nasty, glorious things they did together the night before.

They had decided, after all, not to stay for the entire planned duration. It was Friday, which was to have been the final day of the prematurely imploded conference, but there seemed no real reason to stay now they’d had their fun. London boys all, whether by birthright or adoption, they were eager to get back to home turf and familiar comforts. They would stay the weekend in Mycroft’s Hampstead house, which was practically a five-star hotel anyway, but with even better food and, crucially, soundproofing.

Greg sipped his coffee gratefully, stretching out a crick in his neck.

“Well, thanks for a supremely interesting few days, lads. Though I’m pretty sure you got away with it all far too leniently. Lucky for you I’m such a pushover.”

“Tell that to my bum,” said Sherlock, pretending to grouch. In truth, he was still buzzing and rather wonderfully sore, but the sensation was not unpleasant. He bore it as a trophy, revelling in the after-effects of what Greg had correctly called ‘a truly top-level bit of group shaggery’. 

Mycroft fidgeted on his seat in sympathy, indulging in the residual tingle of his flogged flesh. John caught him at it and cast him a lecherous grin.

Such thoughts evidently still on his mind, Greg suddenly sat up a bit straighter. "Hey. I didn't get a bellboy shag! Aw. I mean, I know I got burglars and concierges and randy coppers, but I was hoping for one of you in a little red bellboy uniform. All brass buttons and tight pants," he said, dreamily. 

"Darling, they don't have them in Welsh hotels, and I'm not flying us to New York just so you can ogle jailbait bellboys," said Mycroft, with equanimity as he buttered his toast. Sherlock looked put out by the very notion.

Greg shrugged. "Johnnyboy, you'd look adorable in one of those little hats."

John’s knife and fork clinked on the side of his plate as he set them down firmly. "I don't want to look adorable in one of those little bloody hats! You do know I used to be a Captain in the army, don't you? I don't do little hats."

"Just big helmets...," snorted Sherlock with customary impudence. 

"Yes, thank you, smart-arse. My arm's not tired, you know.” John smiled through his scowl at the blush which graced his lover’s high cheekbones.

Mycroft intervened with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You can always go back and pick up that tidy little piece who lurked around the lifts for you, Gregory."

Greg set down his cup in outrage. "Rhys the Porter?! He was about 12, wasn't he? Bloody hell, why does everyone think I've got a wandering eye!"

"We don't think you've got a wandering eye, love, we just notice that everyone else has a wandering eye for you," said John, matter-of-factly.

"Not that we blame them, of course…," mused Mycroft.

"What you've got is an oblivious eye, mate," said John, waving his fork at him.

"Hhmph. Keep it that way," grumbled Sherlock, eyes narrowing with warning as he scooped up some jam on his knife.

Greg tutted and rolled his eyes, not-so-secretly delighted at being the subject of Sherlockian jealousy. "Yes, darl. Course. Not totally mental, am I?"

They fell to eating in silence. Sherlock descended slightly into a bit of a funk as he realised their lovely little break from reality was coming to an end.

Mycroft caught a meaningful look from John, who nodded towards the uncharacteristically quiet and well-behaved detective.  

“Lock…,” he began, tentatively.

“Mm?” he said, looking up with a suspicious query in his eyes. “What now?”

"Has it helped take your mind off it all, dearest? Our little Plan?"

Sherlock dipped his head and glanced across at Greg. "Yeah. It was nice. You always know."

"I try. But, erm, speaking of Plans... Gregory and John and I have one for you. In fact, we had a little conference of our own last week."

Sherlcok tilted his head, not sure whether to be pleased or out of sorts about discussions going on behind his back.

Greg pushed his chair out and came to crouch next to Sherlock, one hand on his knee.

"Right, Trouble, listen here," he said, seriously. "I'm not taking premature retirement just to please you, all right? Not cos I don't love you, not cos I don't care how you feel. But because I need my job, and I love my job, and it's just part of the package. Just like all your shit is part of what comes with you. Part of why I'm in it in the first place. And those daft buggers there, an' all. Wouldn't want you to stop, even though it worries me to bloody death too. Right?"

"Yes, Gregory," nodded Sherlock, sounding like Mycroft. Polite and respectful. Listening intently.  

"But...,” said John, holding up a finger and tilting his head with anticipation.

"But?" Sherlock looked down at Greg, hopefully.

"But I can see the point of winding down a bit. And I think Anthea should stop blocking you from the Met mainframe." 

The consulting detective’s lively eyes lit up. "Not really?!" He glanced across at his brother for confirmation.

"Yeah,” continued Greg, reassuringly. “Gonna let you have unfettered access, aren't we, Myc?"

Mycroft smiled and sipped delicately at his tea. "Yes, dear. I think we are. You may pick and choose your Met cases so that Gregory is under no obligation to call you in and can therefore loosen his grip a little. If anything, you will pass cases on to him and he’ll take them up the list of priority. You can go through them together at home sometimes. All very cosy.”

“Probably time for me to get off the streets a bit,” confessed Greg.

Mycroft nodded gently. “I'm going to see to it that Donovan picks up the slack." 

"Donovan?! But she hates me. She won't deal with me."

"She will. She's an insider, she's the best qualified for promotion, and she's not particularly stupid. Besides, I’ll make sure she’s amenable. What would you do, if you were her and under pressure to produce results? Ignore the only person who can produce them, or grudgingly accept their help? Just like our D.I. here learned to do all those years ago."

“’Cept you won’t have to fuck her to get her to cooperate,” joked John with a mucky chortle. He received three disgusted grimaces for his trouble. They quite rightly ignored him as he compressed his lips against the immature laughter that threatened to burst out.

Sherlock shook his head to rid himself of the abominable image. "And you'll let me have free run?” he resumed, turning back to his brother, fully in work-mode. “Anything I like? All censored files, all inadmissible evidence, all communication channels?"

"Yes. I am prepared to obfuscate your involvement on a grander scale. Provided myself, and John, and Gregory are kept fully informed of what you're taking on. Usual rules. You submit any and all new evidence to the police, unless you suspect corruption or anything that reaches into national security, in which case you come directly to me. Any breach of this will result in immediate suspension of privileges. This won’t work without transparency between us, dearest."

"I understand. And Greg, you're all right not being my main point of contact in the official chain of command?"

"More than. Frees me up from a shit-tonne of paperwork, frankly. Though it burdens your brother with more."

"What's a bit of extra bureaucracy in the service of domestic harmony? Do you accept those terms, Lock?"

Sherlock exhaled what sounded like a huge sigh of relief. "Yes. Yes, please."

"Then I believe we have an arrangement," Mycroft raised his tea cup in a little toast to their new accord.

"Tha - "

"No, don't say thank you. I abhor thank yous."

"OK. Good brother." Sherlock reached across the table and patted his head.

"And compliments. I abhor compliments."

"Course you do, you big nance."

“I don’t abhor thank yous or compliments,” hinted Greg.

Sherlock pulled him into a snog, his hands gripping the thick towelling lapels of his robe.

John winked at Mycroft, and reached out a hand to tug at Sherlock’s hair affectionately.

“Congratulations, mate. You officially qualify as the most high-maintenance boyfriend in the Western hemisphere.”

“Probably the world,” corrected Mycroft.

Sherlock released Greg, and raised a slice of jammy toast in the air. “Hear hear,” he said, and took a large, crunchy bite.

****

Three hours and four shower orgasms later, they prepared to leave, and began packing up their getaway vehicle in the hotel’s underground car park.

Greg caught sight of something untoward in the boot of the Bentley as he slung in their cases.

"What the bloody hell are you doing with that?!" he exclaimed.

"It's mine." Sherlock blinked with innocent surprise at being so abruptly accosted. "I've stolen it. From the fishy hotel," he said, simply.

“Oh, for God’s sake, this is what your little Porter friend meant when he said ‘it’s round the back’, isn’t it? Not the bloody car – this!”

John came over the get a look at this intriguing item. His heart sank.

"A Corby trouser press?! What do you want it for?" he said, wide-eyed with outrage as he gawped at the rogue applicance.

Sherlock frowned. "Pressing trousers, obviously. I've always wanted one, haven't I, Mycroft?" he appealed.

His brother nodded in confirmation. "Yes, ever since you found out what it was on Wednesday."

John made a disbelieving noise. "But they're useless! And unsightly. And ridiculous! _Nobody_ uses them, that's the whole point of them! They're a national joke. People in hotels don't even bloody use them! "

"Then they won't miss it, will they?!" said Sherlock, with impeccable logic. 

Greg was spluttering. "You can't just nick anything you fancy from hotels, Sherlock! Mini-soaps: yes. Anything you have to unscrew from the wall: no!"

"Mycie said I could!" he huffed, annoyed at having his lovely new toy disputed over.

"Mycroft!" said John and Greg simultaneously turning to him, both raising shocked eyebrows. Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly, as though puzzled by this overreaction. He opened the car door on the non-driver’s side and leaned on it.

John folded his arms in an unbecoming sulk. "I don't want _that_ cluttering up the flat."

Sherlock scowled and gestured towards his brother. "I'm going to keep it in my room. Mycie, tell him."

"He's going to keep it in his room, John," said Mycroft, blandly.

Greg put his hands on his hips, warningly. "Some poor bastard's going to get blamed for that, you little menace. You're not actually a burglar, and what kind of copper am I if I let you half-inch actual property? Take it back this minute!"

"No!" Sherlock stamped his foot, dodging as Greg swiped a large, open hand towards his posterior. 

Mycroft held his hands up soothingly. "It's all right. I'm having it replaced, Gregory. I've ordered a new one to be installed next week. Amongst other things that may have gone astray...”

“So you could just buy him one from new, then! What's the bloody point? You're literally just buying him a Corby trouser press by roundabout means!" exclaimed John, his voice climbing in incredulous frustration.

"No, I'm burglarising this one and my big brother's replacing it for the idiot hotel. Why is this difficult to understand? Mycie, why don't they understand?!" he implored, desperately.

"Don't be impolite. Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for Corby trouser presses or daylight robbery," scolded Mycroft, but only half-heartedly.

"Hmph. Ruined it now," moped Sherlock.

"Good, leave it here. We’ll tip someone off to collect it," said Greg, firmly.

"Never. Keeping it. John's not even allowed to  _use_ it," said Sherlock, cutting John to the heart. His hand raised to his brow in distress.

"Oh, no, how will I live?! How will I carry on without an unwieldy, pointless machine to inefficiently press my trousers? I'll have to use the iron, and what will become of me then?" he said, sniffing tearfully.

"Oh, stop it, for Christ's sake! Can’t have five minutes of sense with you lot," exclaimed Greg, getting in the back of the car in despair.

Sherlock crowed with triumph. "Yes, John Watson, stop being horrible about my Corby. It's magnificent and you are just jealous." He yanked open the back passenger door and flung himself in, slamming the door.

"Oh, John, you've upset my baby brother," said Mycroft, with theatrical sympathy for the spoiled little beast.

"Don't encourage him, Myc. You've completely overindulged him this week. I'm the one who'll have to undo it all. I have to live with this every day!"

John huffed his way to the driver’s seat and slammed the door even harder.

"Well, I do take your point,” admitted Mycroft, sidling into the passenger seat beside him at the wheel. “But isn't it fun?"

John revved the engine and grunted as it purred to life. He cast a baleful look in the rearview mirror, catching Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and lopsided smirk. He blew him a sarcastic little kiss, and the car pulled away, back to London and whatever it was they called normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please search 'Corby Trouser Press' if you need to. They are wonderful items of camp retro Britishness, a feature of many a childhood holiday and great cause for hilarity as far as I'm concerned. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely to hear from you as always. It keeps me going (though, is that a good thing...?) x


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